Getting older is fucking lame.

I was at the doctor's office today getting something minor looked at...what? NO, it wasn't for a leaky discharge, thank you very little. That hasn't happened for, oh, a good three or four...days. I'm in the clear.

When I was young, there was never any worry about getting sick or anything weird happening with my body. Well, other than puberty, but that's more fucked up than I'd like to go into right now. I rarely ever went to the doctor other than for a sinus infection or twelve, but the visits never resulted in anything major. I'd come out with some antibiotic, perhaps a salve, and everything would be a-ok. Now that I'm 30, though, it seems that everything that can, and that will go wrong, just sneaks up on you.

For example, why didn't anyone ever tell me that I was going to be required to diligently maintain follicles growing on various body parts? It's a disease, I tells ya. Can anyone clue me into the reason that I need hair inside my nose? What the fuck is that shit? I know for damn sure that it's not to keep the heat in. Don't even get me started about ear hair. There are not enough hours in the day to keep it under control!

Another thing I hate about getting older is that everything suddenly becomes bad for you.

If you eat too much, you'll get fat. Well, that seems simple enough. I can live with that. I love to eat, but I do know when to hold off on the 4th I Love It of Cold Stone in a 24 hour time frame. Also, if you eat too much fatty food, you'll have heart problems. And if your take in so much sodium that you could pee another layer on to the Bonneville Salt Flats, well, you'll develop high blood pressure. Nice. On the other hand, if you don't take in enough salt and too much water, you'll pee constantly. Where's the happy medum?

If you get too much sun, you'll get cancer. This one sucks for me, because I have a skin type that definitely lends itself towards that happy-go-deathy non-friend, Melanoma. I like the sun. A lot. I like being tan even more. I couldn't care less about wrinkles, because after all, wrinkles on a guy are "distiguished". On a woman, though, they're a death sentence. Why yes, I am licking my forefinger and marking down one point for the men. High-fives all around, guys. What I don't need, however, is skin cancer. Not that anyone does, but sometimes it is all about me.

If you drink too much alcohol, not only will you develop high blood pressure, but you're more prone to liver disease. Great, just great. I'll take my chances on this one. If I'm going to the grave soon, it's going to be with a fatty liver and while drunk out of my gourd.

And you can't even fuck as much as you'd like because you'll either get the girl pregnant, or your dick will fall off. Where's the fun in that?

Nothing is good for you, and it seems that everything has a warning label. Don't do this with this. Don't take this unless under the supervision of a doctor. Please limit intake to 16oz per day. Fuck, can't anyone have any fun?

With all these warnings, it makes a guy want to go balls-out on every self destructive behavior possible, just to see which disease usurps all others in regards to causes of death. My money is on ass cancer. Even for women.

The last thing that really blows about getting older is my ever-growing intolerance for idiots. I wish I had more patience, I really do. But I don't. So, I write about it here.

After my appointment, I stopped by Chipotle to pick a super salty, not-so-fatty burrito bol for lunch. Bonneville, here I come. When you walk up to the counter, as most of you know, there lies the best device ever created for the food service industry: The Sneeze Guard.

Ah, I love the Sneeze Guard. Actually, the mental imagery of those combined words is of an old, bushy eyebrowed grandpa dressed in a rent-a-cop uniform, standing inbetween you and your food, angrily, yet gently, poking you with a rented nightstick in order to keep you arms length from the food. He works hard for the money. So hard for it, honey.

Anyhow, the plexiglass is present so there's no contact between the dirty customer and the semi-fresh food behind it. For the most part, it works. Not all the time, though.

There's always that one guy that feels it necessary to point at whatever it is he wants, touching the glass, and smearing his dirty-ass finger oils all over it in the proccess. First off, if pointing is required, I assure you that it can be done with out touching the glass. But, pointing shouldn't be required. That's what language is for: so we, as humans, don't have to point and grunt like a baby, or a gorilla, or even a baby gorilla, when we want something.

Even worse is when someone doesn't respect the au-thor-it-eye of the Guard, and proceeds to put their whole arm up and over it in order to point, as if well enunciated words and playing behind the line just aren't enough. Thanks, guy at Chipotle. I really wanted your crusty, calloused fingers hovering over my black beans and white rice. No, really, that's great. I'll enjoy your skin flakings and fingernail dirt as if they're part of my last meal on earth

Why can't you just go away already?

Anyhow, I need a beer. A BFB.

Happy Friday!