Here's how I look at it. I'm currently a healthy manly-man with coarse, dark, thick chest hair and gobs of gonadotropic hormones coursing through my gnarly 'nads. My brain, honed from decades of wisdom and experience, is sharper now than any youngster's who might know how to do something but doesn't know what they should do or why they should do it. While I'm still enjoying my fine form, I'll siphon the money the folks at my neighborhood pubs spend on sex, drugs, alcohol and Ford F150s into audio. That means no frilly, fruity, piss-ant wireless speakers but rather gear that grips my savage soul and shamelessly smacks it to remind me how great it feels to be alive!
The days will come however where no amount of prunes will stir my bowels. And on the rare month when they wearily wake, they'll lazily pour putridity into a pathetic diaper that a careless care-giver will have hastily fitted on me. Nothing will matter to me by then because my brain will have the IQ of a chunk of Bubblicious.
The day will come when my final directives will be fulfilled. Those call for dumping me and my trusted Cold Steel Leatherman Semper-Fi saber-ground, razor-sharp clip point blade in my right hand and Tanto point blade in my left, into a den of vicious bears and wolves that haven't eaten in weeks. I'll howl in delight as we choke, chisel and chew on each other in a final celebratory orgy to shock the grey goo in my skull to life once again.
As I gurgle my final dying gasps, I'll smile knowing my gear has a home with my heirs, who will revel in dynamics rather than puny sound.
