This year is on its hind legs, and I cannot but attempt a review of the last twelve months. To my discomfort, all I can come up with is my growing trouble with my own body. It started with my prostate two years ago (“Prostate Biopsy,” January 19, 2018). And it continued with my bladder twelve months later (“The Catheter Blues,” January 30, 2019; and “My Fucking Bladder,” July 11, 2019). The two are very much related, as I am learning from the good doctors. Even though everything seems to be alright with both organs at present, the last two years have given me a clear picture of the years to come. There will be blood and urine tests galore. Every now and then, I will be going for a checkup with my urologist in Zagreb. Magnetic resonance imaging or MRI is already in the air, as well. I am not taking any drugs on the daily basis any longer, but it is only a question of time before I will have to return to this dreadful practice. In short, my body is caving under me, and it is ever-harder to imagine that it would miraculously rejuvenate itself in the foreseeable future. Old age is hardly a joke, and my birthdays appear to be coming at me at an ever-faster pace. Yes, I will be seventy-four in four short months! And the only remedy I can rely upon at this stage is abandoning thought at will and remaining free from it for as long as I wish (“No-Bullshit Enlightenment,” January 18, 2016). The mother of all remedies, to be sure. In due time, an occasional painkiller may come handy, as well. Yoopee!