It’s my Douglas Adams Birthday. Yep. I’m 42, the same age as the ultimate answer. The answer to life, the universe, and everything. Actually, though I don’t feel forty-two, being a forensic pathologist has taught me the meaning of life.
The meaning of life is that it stops. Sometimes abruptly, and you don’t know when. So you should always know where your towel is.
It has taken me many years to learn that, but I really don’t feel forty-two. I feel like I’m around twenty-five. I’m quite glad that I am not twenty-five anymore. I wouldn’t mind twenty years of my life back, nor would I mind the metabolism of a twenty-five year old, and all that goes with it, but I’m quite content with where I am now, thank you very much. I perceive that I’ve learned a few things over the decades-improbably enough-and I’m really quite thankful for that.
And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go mix myself a pan-galactic gargle blaster. With any luck, I can find a good friend to Vroomfondel my Majikthise. (Good idea, Lili!)
Don’t wait up.