What is your age now, and what age do you prefer to stay at forever?

As of today, October 3, 20024, I am officially 47 years, 30 weeks and one day old. Realizing this morning when I woke up that I was now 570.9 months into this beautiful journey called “My Life”, I had a brief moment of introspective reflection.

Whatever, voices in my head. Everybody farts. BUT not everyone is at that magical age where you can't trust a fart. It's true! Believe it or not, your wrinkled stinker is a traitor, a prankster, a toothless liar! Your tailpipe finds an abundance of mirth and merriment pulling the old bait & switch: dry tooter or wet shooter. But, again, I digress.

Even though inside my head I'll probably never get older than 13, (I laugh at burps and farts, blush around boobs, and giggle everytime I hear someone refer to a female dog as a bitch), yet lately, I physically feel every one of my 17,378 days on this planet. More specifically, my lower back hurt so bad this morning that I couldn't bend down to tie my shoes. “Why?”, you ask in a befuddled tone of concern. “Are you a rodeo bull rider? A stuntman for Jackie Chan? An MMA cage fighter?”

I’m wondering about attachment and transference with the therapist and the idea of escape and fantasy? How much do you think your strong feelings, constant thoughts, desires to be with your therapist are a way to escape from your present life? I wonder if the transference serves another purpose than to show us our wounds and/or past experiences, but is a present coping strategy for managing what we don’t want to face (even if unconsciously) in the present—-current relationships, life circumstances, etc. Can anyone relate to this concept of escape in relation to their therapy relationship? How does this play out for you?

Since I'm currently 2,482 weeks + 4 days old, I think I'd like to see what week 2,483 has in store and then week 2,484 and so on. In conclusion, don't gamble with a fart, expect to hurt for no reason, and keep on truckin’. Life's too short, to live in the past.

Well, as much as I'd like to confirm any one of those voices in my head, it is with a heavy, honest heart that sadly, I have to say, “Nay… nay I am not. For the truth is…… I slept on it wrong.” That's right, I am at that wonderful age where it's possible to make mistakes in my sleep… horrible, painful mistakes.

“Oh, but I don't fart! I would never do that! I am above farting!”

What caused the Democratic Party's 2024 presidential campaign to implode so horrifically?

You know that magical age where you hurt for no reason, you forget things almost…, and the sounds! Hot dog! The most horrific sounds randomly and alarmingly emit from your soul! I now grunt like a power-lifting Hobbit singing death metal eveytime I pull my shoes on, stand up, sit down, or when I try to squeeeeak out a fart. That's right, I now inadvertently grunt when I try to honk out a butt whistle. But I digress.