Upon his fortieth year


[Written in Africa]

I turned forty the other day.  Didn’t write anything about it at the time as I was too busy and not feeling well.  Now I’m still not feeling well but have a spare moment so I’ll write something.

Some people dread aging.  I don’t mind it.  My 20s were better than my teens and my 30s were better than my 20s.  Obviously this trend is unlikely to last forever, but I’m feeling pretty positive about my 40s and 50s.

Some time ago I thought: by the time I turn 40 I will have only seven more weeks until I successfully complete my contract, thus giving me several good options for the future; I will perhaps have enough saved to live independently, and I will have an approximate plan for the future.  By the time I’m 40, I thought, I should be glad to have made it so far.

I am, but it’s not as sweet as I thought it would be.  I still have those weeks to get through and they will be tough.  Things could still go wrong.  I am having trouble with money transfers and may have actually lost $2,000 through some shenanigans that I fear will be the subject of a future post if I can’t sort it out.

Additionally, I’m feeling constantly lethargic.  I may not be able to do any vigorous exercise for the rest of my time here – the bacterial bombardment just makes it impossible.

So, I’m 40 and life continues.  I always thought, I’ll celebrate my birthday once I’m safely out of the country, and that’s what I’ll do.

[Edit: I’m now out and I haven’t.  That’s Nikolai for you.]

I hope my dick still works.

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