O Magic Eight Ball, Am I Going to Die Alone?

No, you’re going to die 57 years from now in Boston with a hooker’s legs wrapped around you. Her shoes will be cheap, her hair too much like a dead cat’s.

You won’t care, trust me. You’ll call her your first girlfriend’s name and ask her to wipe off the red lipstick because it reminds you of your third wife. She’ll have a bad cough; but, you’ll still smoke while you discuss payment options, possible sexual positions, the weather.
Don’t worry, this will all be very legal in Boston, 57 years from now.

But first, your first wife Kathy:

Married on June 15th, 2012, will commit suicide when she finds a Hustler in your office. You’ll go to the funeral and meet Linda, a buxom young translator for the French embassy. She’ll fall in love with you and your understanding of Rimbaud and Bukowski. While she’s away, you’ll write the best poetry the world has never seen on the computer you used in college. You will lose this in a computer crash caused by your first son’s insistence on downloading porn, a socially-accepted practice in 2018.

Nevertheless, you will find it vexing that your 6-year-old son AJ watches
documentaries on fisting and asks you questions like “What’s an orgasm?” and rightly so, at this point, you’ll have converted to ChristoJudiasm (this merger comes slightly after Time Warner goes bankrupt). As the spiritual compass and prime caretaker of the house you will do all of the laundry while Linda sucks off Hector, the pool-boy, who knows The Song of Solomon in its original Hebrew form. Linda will run off with Hector to Vietnam.

Your third wife, Jenny, will be the nurse who attends to your broken coccyx, after shrapnel horribly scars your backside during the Battle of Boise, in World War Three. You’ll receive no honors as you will have been caught making love to Jenny during the war. Despite this setback, you’ll use your experience from the war (and a eighth of legal marijauna) to write “A Farewell to Arms, ” a book reserved by nearly half of the American public on Amazon.com. However, when the book comes to press, you will be chastised by the entirety of the New World Order, who will find out that your book is verbatim Ernest Hemingway. Jenny will then leave you for a younger writer, who is starting a Faulkner revolution in Concord, Connecticut. As a lover of irony, you’ll name your next illegitimate son after him. This son will put you in a retirement home in Boston, after he spends much of his adult life trying to find you (with little help from his blind, deaf mother). You agree to the home because you will need time to write what you call “my first and last novel.”

You’ll meet the hooker not much later. With alimony from Linda and life insurance coming in from Kathy even still, you’ll have enough money in your pocket to burn. The girl will come to your room every week. She'll flatter your work to the point of erection. Eventually, this will get tiresome and you’ll spend your last bit of money attempting to fuck the girl into oblivion with a Viagra-induced hard-on that the mortician will have to tape down… and even then, you still won’t be able to satisfy a woman.

But, as much as your life story has shown, you still won’t care.

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