Dating

It is nine thousand one hundred and thirty days since I was last born, twenty five years and I feel not a day over forty. Here is a fact of interest about me: twenty five years ago I was born at one minute to midnight, missing June 10th by a mere sixty seconds. Here is another: I am one year older to the day than her royal fineness Natalie Portman, which, if and when we meet, shall be my opening gambit. Sixty seconds and it could have all been so different, a sliver of a lifetime, the time it takes to boil a third of an egg; who knows where I'd be if I'd just held on? It would have blown my chances with Natalie for a start. And now I'm left, high and dry, beached like a whale on the quarter shore of a century. Twenty five man, it's just a downward slope to eternity from here isn't it? I mean really, my youth is over, P45's and Scrabble are all that await. Perhaps I should grow a beard? I have rather lush facial hair growth you know, but sadly it goes ginger in the sun. Not so good. Still I know that for every day I lose to the great eggtimer in the sky, I shall gain an eternity on the Other Side, and there I shall sit, gazing into the mirrors of foreverness, a reflected world of infinite ongoing, stretching off as far as the eye could see to imagine. Monotonous, I wish it was.