Special Guest Blogger: Trojan Prince Tithonus

You probably know me from the myth. If you’ve forgotten the details, allow me to give you the skinny. I’m the bloke who was granted immortality but, due to a rather significant clerical oversight on Mount Olympus, not the eternal youth to go with it. A classic case of not reading the fine print before signing on the cosmic dotted line. It’s the long and short of it. My life, the ultimate cautionary tale for anyone making a wish to a capricious deity. Always ask for the full spec sheet, that’s my advice.
It all started so promisingly. I was a handsome prince, Eos was the goddess of the dawn and we were madly in love, the whole nine yards. She couldn't bear the thought of me, a mere mortal, shuffling off this mortal coil. So, she went to Zeus. Now, Zeus was a busy god (lightning bolts, seducing swans, the usual) and I suspect he was dealing with a rather large divine paperwork backlog that day. He heard immortality for the boyfriend, scribbled it on a celestial post-it note, and bunged it in the Approved pile.
And so, my grand adventure began.
The first century was a hoot. The second was… fine. By the third, I was starting to notice a bit of a sag around the jowls. By the fifth, my hair had gone the colour of dusty cobwebs and my back made a noise like a trireme running aground whenever I stood up too quickly. Eos, bless her cotton socks, remained as radiant as ever. Every morning, she’d wake up, fresh as a daisy, ready to paint the skies. I’d wake up feeling like a crumpled, slightly damp parchment that had been left out in the rain.
You think getting old is tough? Try it for three thousand years. It’s not the dramatic sagas that get you. It’s the sheer, grinding, monolithic tedium of it all. I’ve seen fashions come back into style seven times. I’ve watched humans invent the wheel, then invent the self-driving car,  I’ve seen empires rise and fall, philosophies blossom and wither, and through it all, I’ve just been there. The world’s oldest and grumpiest man.
Achilles had his heel, Odysseus had his cunning journey, Me? I have a faulty warranty. I am a footnote. A cosmic blooper reel. When the bards tell my story, it’s not to inspire heroism, it’s to make people awkwardly shuffle their feet and say, Gosh, that’s a bit unfortunate, isn’t it.
Then came the final act. You can’t just keep withering forever, you know. Physics, even divine physics, has to kick in at some point. My body, having reached the absolute peak of decrepitude and one morning, I just… shrank. Went all papery and crackly. My limbs long and spindly, my voice no longer a wheeze but a buzz. I became a cicada.
So, the moral of my story is be careful what you wish for? Read the terms and conditions because one moment you’re the tragic figure who got a raw deal from the gods, the next you’re a happy little insect with a very simple to-do list. And to be honest, it’s a much better gig.