Dodge, Duck, Dip, Dive, and Dodge...

     Forty-five. Twenty years of borrowed time. And what do I plan to do during my 45th year on this planet? Purchase the same thing that should have killed me all those years ago. Why? I have no good, honest answer for you, other than I miss it. Throwing it nearly on its side through a big curve and dragging your knee, the thrill of nothing between you and God at 150 mph, the instant acceleration, the wind across your face and in your hair and the bugs in your teeth (in certain states)...

     Forty-five. Time to start cutting some things loose. Projects that will never finish, or even start. People who don't have the time or even the decency to return my concern. Hopes and dreams that, even dead, clutter my thoughts. Ideas that have no support. The other 85 pounds to make it 160...

     Forty-five. Almost half of my planned longevity. I'm too bullheaded and stubborn to go out like a punk before reaching the century mark. If I can play the game right, I'll have my M.M. in Performance before that half-way mark. Maybe my D.M.A. by fifty-two...

     Forty-five. Might as well call it Year Zero, because you don't know me. If you thought you did, you're in for a surprise. Just don't try to get back in good with me if you're cut. Odds are I've done and done for you and you've barely acknowledged it, or you've lied on or to me, or you've done something else to prick me and cause me to bleed. Well, guess what, Buttercup? True Love will not save you this time, you will perish in the Fire Swamp, and the Dread Pirate Roberts will move on.

     May the odds be ever in your favor...

Why continue describing me, but shunning me?