Hell at 75 / 75 c’est l’Enfer

Hallelujah! Ninety percent of men die before their female partners. No specification about their male partners, nor about if they are trans. Death is the voice of truth, I guess, as J.K. Rowling would say or think. No genderistic heresy. And if your female partner is younger than yourself, add one point to the percentage per year of difference.

Hallelujah! At age seventy-five you are no longer insurable against old-age dependency and degenerative aging. Seventy-five is the age when you cross both the Rubicon to fight your final battle with death and the Styx to discover the colorless and lightless territory of the still not quite dead yet but promised to be soon

At seventy-five you are already dead but forgotten by the undertaker, the corpse collector, this social hyena that lives on the corpses of the deceased they try to keep forever by embalming them. One must always keep an apple in his sleeve for when thirst will require some juicy bite. Hallelujah!

At seventy-five you are on Death Row, but a Suspended Death Row that may keep you alive till they — the biggies of this world — decide it is high time to euthanize all those nearly dead promised to death anyway. Let the scythe, the sickle, and the hammer move in. Hallelujah!

Hallelujah! Seventy-five is the age when you have to lay your head and neck under the guillotine’s blade and five years later, at eighty precisely you will become credit-less because all banks will refuse to lend you any money, even for your burial: you should have subscribed to a burial-insurance when you were still in your Suspended Death Sentence, on probation for better luck than just the Green Mile.

Hallelujah! At the precise age of eighty, the blade will fall, and you will be socially dead, with nothing to say, nothing to do, just sit in your corner and enjoy the life of the living without meddling with them. Free at last to die in peace and to abandon all you own in the hands of the ghoulish greedy aardwolves, the termite eaters.