It's late afternoon. You are surprisingly, and inexplicably, sixty-two years old. Having grown up in America of the late seventies and eighties you were promised (not in writing, but implicitly...) that you would never grow old. Following an international, and mishandled pandemic, you find yourself under employed, being aged out of your chronically stupid media production job in favor of younger people. You feel unsure of yourself; that which has separated you from the rest of society has failed you. Many things you believed have failed you. You find that on days that you do not "work" at your strange and wonderful job, that you do not leave your house, whether out of fear or out habit. Strange maladies haunt you. When did your scalp start to itch? Is your eyesight really that bad? Is your hearing going? Why do you feel weird walking out of the supermarket parking lot if kids are selling cookies? Your adult children, still living with you, seem both unprepared and simultaneously angry about having to participate in family and society. At night you lie awake worrying about them. Nothing feels right except the two beer buzz at the end of the day. How long will your savings last? What would your dead parents think of your situation? Your beloved seems distant because the failure of the simulation effects her too. Your solace is your goofy cat who seems in control at all times. Painting helps but does not pay. The end is coming. How much money will you need to survive the coming onslaught of dementia and destruction? You decide that they will not take you alive.
You will disappear someday.
The keys to your El Camino remain in your possession.
