The clock is ticking. I’m going to die. Dammit.
Not too long ago, I was hanging with a good friend a mine. It was the usual hanging out thing, which in my world means sitting on your hemorrhoids, drinking beer, and talking bad about puppies. He's 82. Christ! 82! I can't even imagine what that is like (but I'm starting to be able to). Anyway, we're having a beer and watching other friends do manual labor. As we relax, he tells me a story about a phone call his wife got. Their house got destroyed by Hurricane Sandy. It has since been rebuilt, but some dudes called or something…