Last month was my 64th birthday but I don't feel like I'm a day over 34. My vitality is stronger than ever. I have a young man's blood coursing through my veins. I can feel it. I think today's going to be the day I finally finish building that deck. I'm building it for guests, 4th of July, etc. That's how I feel today. I feel like building a fucking deck out of cedar and pine and spruce.
I'm going to be shirtless while I build it. You can see the sweat glistening off my pectorals. I look up to see you and the sun bounces off the steel nail I'm holding between my teeth and it's so bright it nearly blinds you. You stand there holding a tray of lemonade. You bend down to offer me a glass. I say, "No thanks, buddy, I don't need any of that shit." You say, "It's not shit, it's lemonade." But I'm too focused on my work to hear you.
Hours pass and the sun is cresting over the horizon. You come out and crouch next to me and rub my shoulders. "Come on," you say, "It's almost dark. You can finish the deck tomorrow." As I turn to you, you can see the fiery rage igniting in the darkest depths of my eyes. "YOU BITCH!" I scream, knocking you back. I tower over you with a hammer in one hand and a two-by-four in the other. The sun is behind my back and the shadows engulf you, exposed and defenseless, your back against the unfinished deck.
You crawl backwards as I approach you menacingly. "DON'T EVER INTERRUPT ME WHILE I'M BUILDING MY DECK AGAIN!!!!!!!!" I throw down the hammer and the plank and get down on all fours on top of you, mounting you, sweat dripping off my shoulders, my wet hair hanging down, shrouding my head like the Grim Reaper's hood. My chest heaves as I lower towards you, and you grab around for someone, something, a tool, a weapon, but there's nothing there.
When I'm less than an inch away from your face I stop. "I love you honey but I swear to God if you ever interrupt me while I'm building my deck again I might fucking murder you and bury your corpse under my new deck." Then I sneeze in your face and go back to my work.
You wipe off your face and hurry back into the house to prepare dinner. I know you regret ever suggesting that I build that fucking deck in the first place! I've been building that deck for almost seven years now and every day is a repeat of the last. I'm not even halfway done.