All Good Things Must Come to an End

Gary Issacs

Happy birthday, my new old friend.  You lied to me about your age from the start, so I can never trust that you are as old as you say.  You are younger by miles.  

I had ChatGPT write her a beautiful, warm, very personal happy birthday message.  Ha!  Thank goodness for the interwebs. 

But that's enough about her.  Let's talk about me.  I feel like I went on a Pub Crawl yesterday.  The All Good Things Must Come to an End Sun Rail Pub Crawl. 

Some of those fools started at nine in the morning and ended up at the same place at nine that night.  I have pictorial proof, but I wasn't there personally.  Not for that.  I met them at the halfway point and ate and drank in just a couple of places.  The entire crew was there for that.  Some came late and others left early, but everyone was there in the middle.  Crowded into small barroom places, God knows what diseases were to be had.  I feel as if I picked up a slight cold.  Probably Covid or venereal rabies.  Who knows?  Certainly something.  

But we were on the Boulevard in my own home village.  The diseases are likely a bit more high toned here.  And this crew of hillbillies from the factory are tough.  They power through just about everything.  

I, however, always need to keep a weather eye out when I am in my own hometown.  I never know what might come to haunt me from my past.  Yesterday at the gym, one of the wealthy gymroids, the fellow who just bought the McLaren, surprised me with a question. 

"Is the woman listed on the quit claim deed to your house your ex?"

WTF?

"You're not the only one who knows how to use the internet.""

"Yea. . . I try to keep that on the down low."

"I've know of her long before I knew you."

"Well. . . she used to be a fun girl.  Now. . . she's, uh. . . ."

"A Boulevard Socialite?  Yea.  I see her husband's signs everywhere."  

"They own a big chunk of the Boulevard, I guess."

I wanted out of this conversation as quickly as possible.  Nothing good was going to come of it.  I wondered why he was looking up such things, though.  There seemed something a bit ominous in that.  

I haven't had a cold for years, not since we began isolating.  I just remembered I have all sorts of cold preventative "medicines" in the back of the vitamin cabinet.  I wonder if they go bad?  I'll give them a try and see.  

So, my dearest old friend, I'd send you that spicy Margarita if I knew where you were.  As it is. . . I guess I'm off the hook.  I'll toast you anyway.  Here's to the next hundred years.  May they be even better.