I was 63 when it happened. Everyone else was 20ish, 30ish. The oldest 37, a sweet little number named Sella Suballa. But mine, long past my prime. And so I’ll always appear as a 63-year-old. Physically strong and capable, smart and street-wise but with less than 20/20 vision, thinner hair, graying beard, and the other nagging incidentals of older men. I’ll never be the fancy of Sella’s, even if I could somehow remedy the latter.
It’s unfair, she’s 178 years older than me, hot as a fox, and I’m 26 years her senior. Where’s the justice?
By now you know I am an immortal. 970 years to the day. Older than the mythical Methuselah by one, a milestone in my mind.
Word is we’re forbidden to discuss immortality with mortals, some ridiculous official code of conduct I’ve never seen, read, signed, or otherwise agreed to. Only the barrage of warnings by other immortals not to reveal our little secret. But who cares? It’s not like you’ll believe me and it’s not like they’ll kill me for telling you. They can’t; I’m immortal.
Listen, when I became immortal, I was excited. I was sure to see an evolutionary advancement, humanity’s conscientious upgrade. Give it a few hundred years, and humans would leave off eating the flesh and fat of our fellow earthlings. A few of whom are immortals. (Surprised? Well, that would be your arrogance, then.) Now here we are hundreds of years later, and nothing’s changed despite the gains in veganism. Billions of sentients sacrificed each year for food and feed not counting those hunted and poached for trophy and gain, kicked aside and run-over.
By-the-way, remember the recent news story about the hunter killed by the bear he shot when the bear fell on him? The bear is an immortal, and his fall was a pounce, his name’s Yogi. Yeah, seriously. Where do you think Hanna-Barbera got the name?
Immortality is awesome, but there’s a downside, it’s the constant worry of sentient suffering we’re seemingly powerless to stop. It’s an inescapable, distressing, depressing, hopeless situation for an immortal and you mortals have no idea how good you have it, to someday die and be shut of it all. And if you don’t mind me saying, I find it terribly hypocritical how you covet longevity and eternity yet compromise your health and expedite your demise by killing and eating our fellow earthlings. Man, that’s both bad karma and bad food.
Anyway, for those of you who have immortality in your future, I have this to say. Stay grounded, go vegan. Never forget that immortal women out-rank the men. And they’re smarter, quicker, hit harder, and all around more badass, so think before you spout off some locker-room nonsense. I learned the hard way, twice. What you come in without, you do without. Missing an eye, toe, or testicle, you don’t miraculously grow one in the transition. We’re immortal, not perfect. And bullets still hurt, but we heal fast. On that note, you’ll do well to remember we’re not gods or goddesses. They’re several rungs up the hierarchy, possessed with devilish powers and an unnerving tendency to smite. Don’t get cocky with them. Trust me, that’s a mistake I won’t make twice. If you happen to have your heart set on godhood, few immortals are ever granted the honor. You can compare your chances to that of winning the lottery. As for myself, I’ve never applied, I have no such ambition. Even though all gods, goddesses, and their demigods are vegans. (Surprised by that? Don’t be, they hold animals in higher regard than both mortals and immortals, and I understand why.) Regardless, theirs is an eternity entirely too prissy, pompous, and rigid for my style, and like the mafia, once you’re in, you don’t get out.