You get to play croquet on holidays for a couple of Christmas', you have a couple of kids, (a succession of bulldogs, for the gays) they grow up, and then you are dead. Life is short. (no, it really is, it isn't just something to say)
There is that grease patch at 25 and after that it is a clear skid to death. Done. And time rolls right on as if you never existed.
You want to leave a mark on this world, good luck with that, as 12 billion people are skidding to their end around you in a tsunami of death, every day.
You think you are a special, unique human being? Yeah, no. You're not. (You can still have the certificate for participation, if you want) Sorry. But, isn't it better to know the truth? None of us are all that special. Like, he's-just-not-that-into-you, isn't it better to know? (No matter what your parents told you, Millennials, it isn't true?) Get in line, take your turn, like everybody else.
Go! There is no test run, this is it. We're live. And watch out for 25. You had better have your shit together by then.