I realize it might be somewhat backwards, but I am actually afraid of living too long. I do not wish to meet the me of the future who has no idea he has left the house with mismatched shoes. (Mind you, I have already reached the stage where I cease to consider the compatibility of my socks and yet seem willing to carry on at least as far as my next luncheon.)

Worse, he may begin to recount the same anecdotes until visits with him become a matter of duty rather than pleasure. (Wait, are they a matter of pleasure now? This is hard to consider given I have not had visitors in quite some time...and now my wonderful thread languishes for lack of proper subject matter...)

Worse, he may begin to recount the same anecdotes until visits with him become a matter of duty rather than pleasure...

What was I on about again?