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I see myself, in retirement, as a completely reimagined and reinvigorated human being, such as a poet whose very odd and seemingly unreadable poem “Burt’s Burnt Shirt” gets queued-up to be published in the New Yorker. It’s an accident, of course, caused by a computer malfunction, because the poem is really a mess. No matter. The writer (me) will come to be admired by other retirees as a guy living out his dream of being a poet: “just look, that nonsensical poem that I fell asleep halfway through reading was given actual real estate in this prominent magazine!” they’ll say. I’ll supplement my social security income by doing tours of bars, reading only this poem (because it’s my only one), in exchange for free tankards of ale. After the hard life I will have lived, that’s the kind of retirement I’ll deserve!