When I was 14, I decided that I wanted to die at age 18. 19 was not as nice a number as 18, 20 was neither here nor there, and 21 was, well, adult-land. And God forbid I become a dried-up, old, joyless adult.
Now, at the ripe old age of three decades, I am happy to say that adulthood has turned out way better than I expected. There's money and
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I thought I was the only who didn't want to grow up!
Now, I want to die in the sun in a garden surrounded by my 24 grandkids at play. And my passing will be marked by some 4-year old saying, "Daddy! Granny fell asleep again while telling us about that time she fell off the mountain!"
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Happy birthday!
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