I Am Ninety. Or Ninety-three. One Or

I Have To Convince Myself That This Is Not A Pointless Life, Even The Body Is Telling Me So.

Keeping Up The Appearance Of Having All Your Marbles Is Hard Work, But Important.

At This Moment, The Story In His Head Was Perfect. He Also Knew From Experience That It Would Degenerate The Second He Started Typing, Because Such Was The Nature Of Writing.

I'm Truly Grateful For My Microwave, Which Allows Me To Easily Clarify Butter, Steam Vegetables, And - When I Am Really Lazy - Feed My Three Kids In Less Than Five Minutes.

But It All Zipped By. One Minute Marlena And I Were Up To Our Eyeballs, And The Next Thing We Knew The Kids Were Borrowing The Car And Fleeing The Coop For College. And Now, Here I Am. In My Nineties And Alone.