You’re not old until you realize you just can’t do the things you used to do.
No matter how motivated or dedicated you are, the human body has its expiration dates. Whether it’s your knees, back, memory, or capacity for bullshit, age warps you, sometimes leaving an altogether different human being you must adjust to. This month I turn 46, and I’ve noticed considerable changes in myself, especially when I make the mistake of reflecting back to my 20s and 30s. So, I figured I would ruminate on things—hopefully without too much moping—to celebrate being one year closer to the peace of the grave.
But first, I want to offer you, my faithful reader, a special coupon to my online store. To celebrate my birthday, I’m offering 10% off on all TRIANAHORROR orders placed between 7/9 and 7/16. Just use code: BDAY at checkout. This applies to all books and merch. I have several new book bundles available and have restocked a lot of items, including the Body Art Coloring Book and paperbacks of The Prettiest Girl in the Grave and The Thirteenth Koyote. So if you’d like to give me a birthday present, simply buy something for yourself.
Now that the shameless self-promotion is out of the way, we can delve into our main topic, which is, essentially, disintegration. Don’t worry. I’m not going to list all the grievances that come with aging. I try not to get too personal. Besides, either you already know about the effects of aging, or you will soon enough, kid. No matter how young you are, we’re all in a constant state of decay.
Death is coming.
It may be difficult for some to accept that. It’s hard to process that you will cease to exist someday. Even religious people who believe in a utopian afterlife are afraid to die… for some reason. For many of us, it’s difficult to contemplate losing all the things we enjoy on this earth. My advice is to counter those thoughts with positive ones like this one:
One day your sadness will end.
This is a very pleasant concept. I like it so much I want to put it on motivational posters and throw pillows to help get me through each day. As we plow through hard luck and trouble in this mean ol’ world, it’s reassuring to know we won’t suffer this way forever. The oppressing weight of existence, the unbearable burden of consciousness, will one day be lifted for good. The Merry-Go-Rounds of trauma and regret that cycle through our minds will finally stop spinning. We may suffer on our way to death, but much like a long road trip to an amusement park, it will all be worth it once we get there. One day, our sadness will end.
That’s why we say, “rest in peace.”
Obviously, to “live in peace” has proved impossible.
I find this refreshing. All the drugs and therapy in the world will never eradicate misery the way death does. It’s the only known cure for everything that ails you, and it’s 100% guaranteed. No, I’m not advocating suicide, but I’m not going to lie and say I don’t understand it. What I am saying is that death shouldn’t be as worrisome as we make it. The instinct to survive is hardwired, so naturally we try to avoid death, but we don’t have to view it as some inevitable horror. You might die horribly, or you might not. You might die so suddenly you won’t even be aware of it, or you might suffer so long that you welcome the reaper when he finally arrives (and might even ask him what took so damn long).
Getting older makes you think about these things.
When I walk up and down the stairs, I can feel the pain in my knees getting sharper. I have old injuries to my shoulder and ankle that are never going to fully heal. It takes nothing for my back to hurt and even less to give me the blues. All I can do is laugh about it. I’ve reached a point in my life where I’m amused by my own pain. I’ve been told by a professional that the uncontrollable laughter I experience when watching a gory, violent death in a movie is directly related to personal trauma. Maybe that’s where this giggling at my own misfortune comes from. But I believe it’s healthier to shake your head and laugh at your pain than to complain about it. Nobody wants to listen to your whining, but everyone will laugh and commiserate if you joke about your aching back. I think it should be this way with death too.
Now that I’m in my forties, I know my life is, at the very least, half over. Given that both my parents died young of natural causes, I probably have even less time than I realize.
I used to be an avid bodybuilder, but I just can’t lift weights the way I used to. There’s a difference between feeling the burn and just hurting. I still work out, but I’ll never be as strong as I was when I was a 30-year-old gym rat. It’s sort of like how my music tastes have changed as I’ve gotten older. The death metal I enjoyed when I was an angry young man doesn’t appeal to me anymore. I’m never in the mood for the fast, intense rage of Slayer, even though I loved them for decades. The respect and nostalgia are there, but its beyond my ability to enjoy it these days.
I’ve learned that nostalgia can be a dangerous trap. It’s a comforter blanket that provides fleeting doses of serotonin. People know this. So does big business. That’s why we’re still getting Indiana Jones and Ghostbusters movies forty years later. Sometimes long-delayed sequels can be great movies; Sylvester Stallone and Bill and Ted have proven that. But the problem with nostalgia is that it keeps us from moving on and discovering new art and new happiness. How many times can you watch the Hulk smash things before you change the channel? How many times can you accept another Halloween timeline? How many times can you sit through something that constantly winks at you as if to say, “hey, remember this?”
Believe me on this: you will never again experience the joy you felt in your youth. Nostalgia tries to recreate what is forever gone, and in that process, we set ourselves up for endless disappointment. Christmas will never be as magical as it was when you still believed in Santa, because now you know your parents were just lying to you (which is the best lesson any kid could get about life). The old girlfriend/boyfriend you reminisce about is now as old and unhappy as you are and probably has kids as old as you two were when you last saw each other. Watching the pearls fall off the neck of Bruce Wayne’s mom over and over but with different actors is never going to make you feel the way you do about whatever version of Batman you grew up with.
In the immortal words of Thomas Wolfe: “you can’t go home again.” One can never fully “go back home to your family, back home to your childhood… away from all the strife and conflict of the world… back home to the old forms and systems of things which once seemed everlasting but which are changing all the time.”
This is a particularly difficult thing to deal with when you no longer recognize the world. This too is an inevitable casualty of aging. Young people appear ignorant and insane. Modern music sounds like ear poison to you, and your own music is a collection of golden oldies and albums others forgot or never knew (sidebar: a girl I’m close with didn’t know Ministry’s Psalm 69 album, which shocked me until I realized it was released over thirty years ago, and she’s younger than it is—she also didn’t know who Bill and Ted were, by the way). Everything you own becomes an antique, and not the good kind people pay ridiculous amounts of money for. A social life becomes an exhausting slog. Your way of life becomes somehow offensive. And once you’re old enough to truly understand your species, all the dreams you had for a better world are flushed like the turds they are. Not out of hopelessness, but out of practicality. Until one day you’re alone on your porch with a shotgun and a bag of hard caramels, just waiting for someone to step on your lawn, and you suddenly realize you’ve become the one thing you swore you never would—your parents.
Now that’s something to laugh about!
You might be wondering what my point is, but as Richard Pryor once said, “there is no point to be made.” Thoughts like these are just what 40+ birthdays are all about. That’s why all the cards and birthday cakes you get after 40 are shaped like coffins or tombstones.
You’re dying. Might as well get a chuckle out of it.
Currently listening to: Junior Kimbrough’s You Better Run, featuring “Done Got Old.” Also Jimmy Duck Holmes’ Gonna Get Old Someday, featuring the title track. Both are birthday staples for me.
Currently waiting to watch: The Flash. I’ve had superhero movie fatigue for years now, but as I said, sometimes a long-delayed sequel can be good, and seeing my favorite Batman, Michael Keaton, back in the cape and cowl is like a loooooong delayed sequel for me. I couldn’t care less about the film otherwise. I just want the Batman I fell in love with when I was 12. But I also know the snare trap of nostalgic entertainment, as I have covered in this newsletter, which is why I’m waiting to watch it at home rather than rush to a theater (movie theaters are yet another thing I no longer enjoy). In the meantime, I’ve watched some newer horror films but none worth mentioning.
Currently reading: Just finished Sic by Henry Rollins. An excellent but harrowing read. And I’m probably dating myself by mentioning him too!
I’m also doing my final review of my top-secret new release that I’m very excited to announce later this month. In the meantime, I hope you’ll check out my latest books, The Prettiest Girl in the Grave and Ex-Boogeyman, which are now widely available in ebook, paperback, and audiobook, with signed copies waiting for you on my website—don’t forget to use the discount code: BDAY. The best birthday gift you could ever give me is to buy, read, or review one of my books. The work is what keeps me going.
Until next time, keep reading, and try to be happy. After all, life is short. Death is forever.
Your pal,
Kris
More death ramblings, please.