I'm forty eight years old. I don't care.
I've cheated death a few times. I've had good fortune, and I've been royally screwed. I've had money, and I've had none. I've gone hungry for a little while.
I've been simultaneously propositioned by one woman while being assaulted by another-- both strangers. I've signed a few thousand autographs. I've been recognized on the street by passersby, confusing my companion. I've gone unrecognized on occasion by my own relatives.
I blinded everyone in my chemistry class in high school. I counterfeited money in shop class for a lark. I was nicknamed "The Phantom" by that chemistry teacher, because I was constantly truant. I was a National Merit Scholar.
I've performed dangerous backbreaking labor. I've been paid to teach frisbee.
I've been a welder in the desert. I've had pretty secretaries bring me coffee.
I've saved a few people's lives. I've seen a man murdered.
I've worked for charities. I've committed vandalism. I've been robbed a half dozen times. I've stolen things.
I've been thought a clown. I've been considered dreadfully serious.
Half of the employees at my last job called me Mr. Rogers. The other half called me the Prince of Darkness. They were all correct.
I've been picked on like a sissy. I've knocked a man senseless--that struck me first-- with one blow.
I'm very polite. I have a terrifying apoplectic temper.
I've worked with people for four years and never said a word about myself, despite the fact I talk all the time.
I made a joke, in a foreign language, in a foreign country, and people laughed. I've been booed, loudly, before.
There was a stretch of my life, lasting one third of it, where I was profoundly unhappy all the time. I doubt anyone knew that.
If I could live a thousand years, I wouldn't change a goddamn thing, if it meant one fewer minute of sitting at a table I made, in a house that I built, across the table from the wife I won, watching the children we made smear their dinner on their faces.