Emily Bronte was a month younger than I am right now when she died. Have I written my Wuthering Heights already? I think not. Clearly, I’ve been slacking. I’ve also outlived Patsy Cline by a week. She had managed to come up with “Crazy” and “Walkin’ after Midnight” in one week less time than it’s taken me to . . . successfully be able to become a librarian and wannabe author. On the bright side, Emperor Nero was two weeks younger than me when he died. I don’t even know how to fiddle yet, let alone fiddle while a city burns. So at least I won’t be known for tyranny just yet. How do I know all this? Dead At Your Age, a fascinating website that ought to be motivating, yet ends up being depressing. At least for me. What thinkest thou?