My grandfather broke his hip at 76. He was replacing his own composition roof on the house he built by hand in his 50s and he fell off. He was also drunk.

My grandfather broke his hip again at 92. He was replacing his own composition roof again and he fell off. He blew a .16.

When he was 80 he planted an English walnut tree and stated publicly that as soon as he got walnuts out of it, he could die. Then he got walnuts at 88 and decided he'd live to 100. He damn near made it. I think he finally got sick of his wife, whom he married at 19. My uncle died on a Tuesday, he died on a Wednesday. My grandmother died that Thursday. He made it to 97.

My other grandfather killed himself with a knife and a fork. He ate like shit, watched 12 hours of TV a day and never exercised from early retirement at 55. Even still it took him to 80. His brother made it to 102. His mother made it to 101.

(His wife got sick of his shit and as soon as the Alzheimer's started she overdosed on nitroglycerin at 72)

So I support the view in this article, too. But I also know it sure as fuck ain't for me. I've got the example of the man who put hollandaise sauce on everything and died a piece at a time, a burden on his family. But I've got the example of the other side who were damn near Clan McCloud and fuckin' A, my grandfather smoked a pack a day from childhood through the '70s and had a damn fine time to 97. Polished off the work day with pork rinds and three shots of Old QT and made it to 97.

I'm 40 years old in a few weeks. That's fuckin' old. But I'm kicking ass and taking names. I ran 3 9 minute miles in a row four hours ago and weigh less right now than I did when I was 27. I have more hair than anyone else in my family and it's nearly all brown.

75? Fuck that. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.