When I was 18 I had a decision to make. Should I accept a scholarship to Johns Hopkins U. and become a medical researcher, or should I use my body to satisfy the yearnings of horny women and become a Chippendale dancer?
When I was 25 I had to choose whether to use my teaching skills to join the Peace Core and help impoverished kids learn to read and write or use my writing talent to provide material for porno websites.
When I hit 40 I had to decide whether to move my family to a larger house so the children had a backyard and pool, or dump the chubby spouse and her bratty kids and hook up with Lola, the 27 year old in HR.
At 55 I had to decide whether to retire early and travel the world or stay there and retaliate against Walter, a junior associate who spread rumors I couldn't pee straight.
When I hit 75 my decision came down to taking stool softener or continuing to suffer in silence.
At 90 my choice was burial or cremation.
You, dear reader, chose to read this when you could have been devouring Balzac, who ate enough fiber I'm told.
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