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Scientists recently released a new study stating the biological upper limit of human mortality is 115 years.
From The New York Times:
Based on his own experimental research, Dr. Vijg describes aging as the accumulation of damage to DNA and other molecules. Our bodies can slow the process by repairing some of this damage. But in the end it’s too much to fix.
“It seems highly likely we have reached our ceiling,” said Dr. Vijg, an expert on aging at the Albert Einstein College of Medicine. “From now on, this is it. Humans will never get older than 115.”
Bullshit. I’m going to live forever.
Not one of these “scientists” have ever stepped foot into the festering, disease-ridden deathtrap of a fraternity house basement. They’ve never waded through the primordial sludge wearing nothing but denim cut-offs and walked out clean. They are weak, simple lumps of skin and gristle — like dirt on the ground. They have not tasted the black soup of immortality that birthed us.
They have never imbibed enough alcohol to kill an elephant, rising invincibly only minutes later to still dominate the pong table. They haven’t known the thrill of monkey-slapping Death in the face as they shovel questionable substances into their bodies before jumping from hotel balconies to the pools below. The Reaper has no claim on us; when we falter, it is on our own terms. Never have these weaker men of numbers and studies felt the rush of an all-powerful lay with the hottest, wildest girl at the party. They don’t know the divine energies that emanate from the beating of our heart as we conquer life and become more than flesh.
They judge us as men, and as men, we are weak and malleable. But in our letters, in our nights that become legends, they underestimate what we become.
We are gods, and we are undying. Take another drink..
[via The New York Times]