Dear Dumbass,
Making it to 100 years old after the circus of nonsense you pulled in your younger days is borderline suspicious. Honestly, it feels like a clerical error somewhere in the universe. There should have been at least three moments where the credits rolled and everyone shook their heads. Yet here you are, still breathing, still standing, still probably muttering sarcastic comments at the world like the cranky old punk you always said you’d become.
Let’s not pretend the early years were some noble heroic journey. You spent a long stretch acting like gravity, consequences, and common sense were optional suggestions. Late nights, questionable decisions, and the kind of stubborn confidence that only someone young and dumb can pull off. You pushed your luck hard enough that statistically you should’ve become one of those cautionary stories people tell their kids about.
But somehow the universe kept shrugging and letting you keep going.
Somewhere along the line, the chaos slowed down. Not because you suddenly became wise, but because your body started sending strongly worded complaints. Knees crackling. Back popping like bubble wrap. Turns out age is the universe’s way of installing speed bumps in front of reckless idiots. And weirdly enough, those speed bumps probably saved your life.
By the time you hit the later decades, those ridiculous stories stopped being stupid adventures and started becoming proof that you actually learned something. Not everything. Let’s not exaggerate. But enough to keep the wheels on the bus.
So if you’re really sitting there at 100 years old, leaning on a walker and still wearing a beat-up punk hoodie, remember this: you didn’t survive because you were careful.
You survived because you were too stubborn to quit.
And somehow that was enough.
Don’t do this shit again,
Eric
Ordained Pastafarian minister. Spy vs. Spy fiend. Tech-tinkering, people-dodging geocacher with punk roots and hard-earned dev chops.
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