Birthday Thoughts.
Thirty-Five.
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:
Thirty-Five.
F***.
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:
Thirty-Five.
F***.
posted by Yr. Hmbl. & Obdt. | 1:50 PM
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