Living Forever By David Allen I'm going to live forever. All I have to do is never take out the trash. Sound Weird? Well, I have it on good authority. One drunken night in New Orleans, lost and staggering through forgotten alleyways, my friend and I came upon a palm reader who charged two bucks to tell my future. “Well, here’s two bucks for you and…” “Five for the room?” she asked, smirking. I was stunned. “How did you know that was a line in one of my poems?” “I’m a seer,” she said. “Give me a hand.” She slowly traced the lines in my palm. “You’ll live to the ripe old age of 91,” she said. Really? Wow, I thought. I had seven more decades of rollicking, wild fun ahead of me. She released my hand and I gave her a tip. As I turned to leave and find a bar to celebrate, I heard her wildly cackling behind me. “It's then you’ll trip and hit your head on concrete stairs while taking out the trash!” Well, the Grim Reaper will have to wait. I swore right then to never take out the trash. That was decades ago. Now, excuse me, a film crew from a television show about hoarding is coming over.
Type Dancing 