I can't wait until I'm really old, like 70 or 80, when I can yell offensive things at younger people like "Screw off, whippersnapper!" as I pass them in a bikini on a periwrinkle beach bike, cigarette teetering on my lips, my wrinkled, leathery flesh rippling in the wind as I go 2 miles per hour through the streets of Boca Raton, the humidity seeping through my dentures and moisturizing the lone piece of hair that trails off the top of my scalp. I will be accompanied across the street by younger men. I will gloriously remember nothing but things that happened before I turned thirteen. I will eat only chocolate and maybe some prunes to keep balanced. I will walk around nude and pretend it's my dementia acting up.
I also want to become this woman, because setting a Guinness World Record in the last five days of one's life sounds weirdly satisfying.
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