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!