On Aging

A thousand years old: by Rod Waddington (CC BY-SA 2.0)

I’ll give you a one-word summary of my philosophy on aging.

It blows.

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Home for the Hollandaise

Photo by Windell Oskay (CC) https://www.flickr.com/photos/oskay/

If you’ve heard of Jamie Oliver, then you probably haven’t heard of me.

Shame on you. I’m only one of the world’s top chefs. The fact that you haven’t heard of my only goes to prove my theory—the corporate chef culture has worked for years to prevent me from bursting onto the world culinary stage. They don’t like independent thinkers, the kind of gastronomic geniuses who think outside the box and refuse to give up on gluten.

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Dinner? Over my dead body!

If I really must kick the bucket (and, I suppose I really have to, at some point), then I’d like it to be a convenient and comfortable descent into the Eternal Nothingness. I want it to be in my bed, while I’m watching something funny on YouTube and eating out of a giant tub of popcorn. I love popcorn, and I fear they might not have it over on the Dark Side.

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In the land of beautiful women

Being a Serbian of average looks is no easy task. Sometimes I feel like such an underachiever. A failure, almost. It’s hard to walk down the street here and avoid comparing yourself to hundreds of other women rubbing shoulders with you on the sidewalk. It’s a tall order just going to the supermarket, minding your own business, and then managing to get home without crying in the car because you looked like a frump compared to everyone else in the checkout line.

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Getting in shape (yeah, I’m a circle, what are you?)


Once, as a child, I found an old book hidden behind the shelf in the living room. It was a weirdly-shaped soft-cover book called “Beginners Kung Fu,” and someone in the family had clearly been embarrassed about having purchased, or received it as a gift, at some strange point in his/her life. Inside was a “brief” history of Kung Fu, spread over the first twenty pages and printed in the smallest font known to humanity.

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