Turning 40

One

"Beep Beep! "
The sound of another text message gets me back to the living world in the late morning light.
"Ping! Boing! Blip! Whoosh!"
The cringing sound of WhatsApp, Messenger, Instagram, Twitter, iMessage, Snapchat, Viber, Facebook and Outlook connecting to the world out there and vomiting all that info loudly onto the little mobile screen, makes me look at the time. 09:30AM! I sit up, grab my phone and notice a bunch of red dots over the icons of numerous apps are screaming for my attention and I haven't even had my coffee yet. I decide that nobody is important enough to already deserve my full attention at this hour and I get up.
As I wash my face, I can't help noticing the first white hair in my beard. Or is it the second? Thank goodness for tweezers. Under the bright spotlights of the bathroom mirror, the traces of last night's celebration are still clearly visible and I realise that it will take a lot more than a few drops of Red Eye Relief to restore my face into something humanoid. My hair hurts and my skull is screaming for justice. The aftertaste of turning 40!

On my way to the kitchen, my phone rings. As I spent the last 20 years of my life travelling around the globe, I met a whole lot of people, who -interestingly enough- happen to live just around the corner from where I grew up. One of them is Robbie.
"Hey, duuuuude!!!! Happy Birthday, mááán!!! Whassup? Awesome party last night!!! Jeez, Mikey, you rock! Where did all those dance moves come from?!!"
I now realise I should have gone straight for that aspirin. I put the phone on speaker mode and drop 2 pain-killers-and-coffein into a large glass of water.
"Robbie, my friend! I've never felt better. Too bad you couldn't make it to the party. Not even a glimpse of a hangover here."
It's 2018, and I am slowly turning into a victim of the Instagramania too. You only post great pictures of your own fabulous life and when talking to people, you show them your toothpaste commercial smile and hide away your real feelings. In my case: a hangover that probably has its own Instagram page.
 "Ha ha ha! You ain't foolin' no one here. I saw the footage!"
The what? Dammit! I can't help thinking my parents grew up as the really happy generation: it was the Golden Sixties, everything was possible with Love, Peace and Understanding and with a flower in your hair you had sorrow-free sex, drugs and Rock'n Roll. No need for fear. Bad diseases did not exist, and if you gave money to the right people, nobody could possibly know what were up to last night. Those  happy days are over.
I quickly flick through the messages on my phone and see my name tagged in numerous pictures and videos. O-M-G! Bribery won't do the trick anymore.
"A shame you didn't make it yesterday. It was epic! How's my new chapter coming along?"
Deviating the conversation worked.
"I am full of ideas, Mike! You should open your first chapter with a murder. I think your crime scene should be in Gaddafi's Tent in Libya, and the victim a half Indian who was murdered by the impact of a blunt object. Remember the weird autocorrect suggestion from last week? Slammerkin ? Well how about Ranjid Slammerkin for a name?"

Robbie is always like this. A successful marketing consultant full of creative ideas and bullshit but with a smile that could sell sand in the desert. Everybody loves Robbie. He's tall, blond and very direct but when he loves you, he loves you dearly, no matter what. I asked for his creative spirit to help me out of my writer's block. I have recently taken on the idea of writing a book and becoming a best-selling author but already on my first page I seem to look at a blinking cursor on a white screen. How do the Dean Koontzes, Dan Browns and Steven Kings of this world do this? It's not always the butlers that did it, and here, the postman doesn't even ring the bell once, let alone twice. 
I quickly swallow the effervescent pain killer, and put down the glass a tat too loud, leaving a pulsating echo behind my eyes...
"I appreciate your input, but I don 't believe in starting a story with a bang to then try to develop it in 24 chapters. I prefer to build up to a climax, keep the tension high and then relieve the readers from their anxiety in the last paragraph."
"Hey, it's your book, not mine, but I really think Slammerkin sounds very cool. Anyway, I gotta rush. Those invoices don't make themselves. Later!"