By twenty I’d be a poet. By thirty, a novelist. By forty, a memoirist. Perhaps a decade anon I’d expire telling stories By a babbling brook With a smoldering fire And a jug of wine. At thirty nine I took inventory. The workbench was sow backed But the warehouse was bare... (Source: "Mission Reboot", 40x41: Midlife Crisis Postponed) This is an excerpt from one of the ...