Will's Coffee House

John Dryden, Dramatist, Critic, Poet Laureate, and my ancestor, frequented a coffee house called Will's almost daily, where he would hold forth on sundry subjects with great wit and aplomb. Same deal here, only without the wit or aplomb.

Location: Large Midwestern City, Midwestern State, United States

I am a stranger in a sane land...

Sunday, January 09, 2005

Birthday Thoughts.


Thirty. F***ing. Five.

Thirty F***ing Five Years Old Today.

And I still don't have a real job. Or a real life. Or anything that seems even remotely real in any aspect of my existence. (Well, maybe my wife, but only because she hits me pretty often.) I seem to be staring out of the same eyes I was using when I was 21, 18, 12. I'm just not aware of any real change. Wasn't adulthood supposed to kick in a few years ago, and how did I miss it? Christ, I should be saving for retirement, not scrambling to make the monthly nut on my credit card. I should be bitching about having to drag my kid to softball practice, not wondering whether or not I'll ever get around to having offspring. I should be finishing my most recent novel, not dithering around on maybe considering getting back to the few scattered pages of my latest piece of prose nonsense. I should have done something by now--I should BE something by now.

But I'm not. And that--that is depressing.

On the other hand, as the folks in Sri Lanka would say, "Suck it up, you snivelling baby--we're getting our limbs cut off because tiny scratches have become infected and we lost all our antibiotics when a wall of water took out the hospital." Touche, Sri Lankans, touche.

But still:




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