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.

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.

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.

Summer in Florida back then didn’t gently arrive. It didn’t stroll in like some polite Northerner asking about iced tea and sailboats. No, it punched the door open, threw its sweaty arm around your shoulder, and said, “Hope you like humidity, dumbass.”

We didn’t care. We lived for it.

They say youth is wasted on the young. I say opportunity is wasted on the ones too scared to use it. And yeah, I’m talking about me. I had all the fire back then, all the instincts, all the trauma to pull from. But no clue how to use it. I dabbled in writing like a drunk uncle at a wedding tries dancing. Awkward. Sporadic. Kind of hopeful. Mostly just a mess.