The story never ends.

“So then I says, ‘Whaddya mean no more chocolate glazed donuts?’ And the guy, he says, ‘We’re out.’ So I says ...”

Yet another harbinger of old age to come: the brutally banal banter bandied about without pause.

Everything — everything — becomes a Shakespearean opus, replete with character descriptions, action narratives and detailed dialogue.

Doesn’t matter how mundane the story — waiting in line at DMV, setting up a dentist appointment, getting the morning toast to the perfect shade of brown — they all merit a full-scale, one-person production.

At what age does the bad bard gene kick in? Are we born with it and nervously await its ill-fated debut during senior citizenry?

​Or is it that younger folk have so much good shit going on that they want to get right past the mindless daily rituals as fast as possible so they can tell you about this hot guy or girl that kind of smiled at them at the coffee shop, or this potential job opportunity that will take them to Australia, or this bike-to-hike-to-rock-climb thing they’re locking in for a month sabbatical.

Maybe when you run out of stories worth telling, you transfer your storytelling skills to the drug store line you had to wait on for six goddamned minutes. “And let me tell you, I said to them, I said ...”

I have seen the storytelling future, and it ain’t pretty.