Ever wonder what Death really thinks about the job? Not the poetic, cloaked-in-mystery version with the hourglass and the drama. The real gig. The one where you have to show up in garages, bathrooms, and Arby’s parking lots to collect confused souls mid-sandwich. “It’s My Job” is a darkly funny, painfully human monologue from Death to one unlucky guy named Joe, a regular dude who just wanted to finish Better Call Saul before kicking it. This is what happens when the Reaper gets honest, a little sarcastic, and maybe, just maybe, a bit tired of being the most misunderstood employee in the universe.

This is NOT a work of fiction, not totally, although it will be classified as such. It refers to historical facts that were true in my life, but fictionalized the conversation that should have happened before he passed. It didn’t, and I am not sure it would have helped in any case.

But here it is …

Woke up sore. From sleeping.
Didn’t run a marathon. Didn’t brawl with a raccoon. I laid down for 7 hours like a good little adult and now my spine’s filing a grievance. This is aging? What a cosmic prank.

I wrote a long, sarcastic love letter to this ridiculous phase of life—where rest injures you, dreams involve Walgreens, and getting out of bed is a full-body negotiation.

Read it. Laugh. Cry. Stretch first.

Don’t Let the Old Man In.

Not today. Not while there’s still ink in the pen, sweat on the barbell, and fire in the belly.

They told us to slow down. To “act our age.”
Nah. I’ve seen what happens when you do that. The old man moves in, takes the remote, and turns your life into reruns.

This one’s for the ones still dreaming, still lifting, still showing up, even when everything aches.

It’s not about pretending you’re young. It’s about refusing to go quietly.

NEWSFLASH:
You’re not too old.
You’re too comfortable.

At 60+, your body doesn’t hand out freebies anymore. You’ve gotta earn every bit of strength, stamina, and sanity. But here’s the wild part: you still can. I wrote about it. And I didn’t hold back.