Men, Yes, We Became Men

What have we become? We who used to sit in my bedroom listening to Beatles records on headphones. We spoke of the future. We planned our advance. How many cups of coffee have we consumed in the over 30 years we've known one another? A private village buzzing with secret flies. An isolated two merged in one thought. Teenage boys. Teenage men. Men. Yes, we became men. Grown up. Living in our own apartment. Peanut butter and coffee in the cupboard. Bread and margarine in the fridge. Macaroni and Cheese for supper. Living the good life! University. Late night studies. Crammed in between the parties. Laundry day. Bags and bags of rumpled semen stained clothes, dumped like angry *****es into industrial machines. Video games and cigarettes. Philosophy and politics. We and our gang of other anxious young men gathering in groups for comfort. Planning on how we'd get laid. Mostly going home alone and jacking off. We grew older. Old. Yes, I suppose we are now old men. Just a wee bit past middle-aged. Infrequently connecting. Suggesting times we could meet. Dinner and a Movie perhaps? Have we become that old? Life goes on and has gone on. Marriages begun. Marriages ended. Husband. Father. Having Kids. Children. Teenagers. Young adults. Grandfather now. You've lost your hair. I didn't take it, but still it is lost. Mine remains, but rude strands of grey pop up like alabaster whores on parade. Keep it between ourselves, but I colour mine now. Oh yes. Like a vain woman rushing to her makeover session, I plop The gunk on my head and wait for it to pretend for me. I'm crabby in the mornings. Irritated in the afternoons. Pissed off by the coming of the night. Adulthood. Isn't it grand?! Do you still listen to the same music we used to love? Pop on a Beatles song and sing along, planning on how to change the planet? Me. I don't give a **** about the planet anymore. Let it rot into stinking piles of dung. I'm involved in my own existing now. Are you? We're in the final stages of living. Neither sad nor morbid. Simply a fact. Good twenty, thirty years left. Let's promise each other to meet again a few more times before our funerals.