Now that I have reached middle-age I am increasingly haunted by loss — the loss of what might have been. I am giving up on some of my ambitions. Not the big and cherished ambitions. The other ones.
No. No I won’t read Finnegans Wake. I won’t even try starting it again.
Mogadishu: I will never see you.
I won’t win a hot dog eating contest. I am no longer tempted to enter one.
I won’t perform a solo interpretive dance piece called “White Seduction” at the Cape Fear Regional Theater in Fayetteville, North Carolina.
Never will I own a llama.
I won’t smoke a clove cigarette or drink fermented Mongolian horse milk.
And the darkest and most tragic one, the one that may return to me on my deathbed: I will never have sex with someone who owns a PT Cruiser.