Pride! with an exclamation point
I would like to stay 18 please.
That's what I said on the night before my 19th birthday. Something inside told me that this should be my birthday wish. Something inside told me that it ain't going to happen. I want to stay fast enough to outrun my friends, flexible enough to please, strong enough to survive against forms of evil that tend to create for our survival in an illusional world of hatred and deceit. Us men... we live our lives seeking a youth potion that doesn't exist. We are invincible, capable of doing anything that we want. No matter how wise and humble some of us are, we always know that deep inside our main motive is to boss people around. Women age faster and die inside at very early ages. Women have the ability to make themselves feel like shit whenever. It's such a talent that we do not wish to have. Us men, we tend to ignore and move on, pretend that all sorts of shit ain't real, that it only takes a finger snap to pull ourselves back on our feet and carry on with our designated duties by feeding ourselves with our god given right to stomp on all else. Us men... we are proud, Johnson proud. We believe that we can have any woman that we desire, get any job that we want, make more money than our own fathers' would have imagined. It only takes disease to kill us, and disease comes in unexpected forms, body and mind. If we could each be given the right to hold a gun... for "protection", we damn straight would. Guns are cool and they tell whose boss. In 1989 an arrest per gender statistics schedule was prepared as a national study by the UN. 86.2% were male. Our ignored insecurity precedes us and we can't hide from it. We want to have the cake and eat it. We want to rule the world. We want a gun for our 21st birthday and we want to stay 18 when we're turning 19.
Deep down... we still believe we're 18.
We want to stay young forever, have sex forever, rule forever... and it's been that way since the beginning of time. We live on believing that we're going to stay immortal, aided by an imaginary gun that we tend to hold to each other's self-deluded heads. Isn't it ironic that a 'clock' is also the round chamber where you load the gun with bullets? Wouldn't that basically imply that it's as if when we turn in time as an important element in our day to day operation and functioning that's when it becomes inevitable for the process of male survival to morph into loading in our own suicide pistol.
Men feel invincible until the day they start asking people to help them urinate... that's when it hits us that just like snails we're bound to die.
