It's tough to be so damned good looking. Tougher still to be so omnipotent, virile, talented, capable. It's a real ordeal to have so many gorgeous lovers, to be so unbeatable in so many arenas from sports to business to the bedroom. And lastly, it's tough to be (mostly) immortal.
There's a downside.
The downside is, if you ever get sick, if your hair recedes, your cheeks sag, or your voice falters, the buzzards start circling. Wouldn't you say so, Mr. Chavez?
Take it from me, it's a hassle. Tell the world you've gone to Havana for cancer treatment and the press starts planning your funeral. But if you don't tell them it's even worse, as you're obviously concealing your imminent doom. All I know is, if I ever puke blood, I'm going to try to splash it all over the journalists in the front row of my press conference. Let 'em write themselves silly postulating whether I've got a disease or am just a vampire.
Hell, for that matter: let 'em think I'm undead. I'll be around this tinpot dictatorship as long as that, if not longer. Not like my buddy Hugo.