On a note vastly different from the last post, I turn 31 tomorrow. Or, in a little over 5 hours. I really like being in my thirties. I am of the somewhat insane belief that no one takes you seriously in your twenties. Might as well have stayed a teenager for all the respect my age managed to garner. So an unceremonious transition to 30 a year ago tomorrow was nice, but now I’m officially not a “new arrival” to the 30 plateau. I’ve taken up residence and fully intend to stay frankly, I’d like to be turning 40. There’s no fucking around with a 40 year old. You mean business at forty. And at fifty you might as well fall over and die because it’s all downhill from there. It has been my intention to live, even though I have endangered my own life on multiple occasions. I’m not of sound mind and body at times. And like I mentioned before, deteriorating relationships have been the primary cause of my past suicide attempts. I gamble big on the success of my relationships, and when they fail, I feel like my life is over. So, maybe it’s time to go solo for a good long while. Hopefully.
Blog, you just turned 2 about six days ago. I don’t take you very seriously. You have a long way to go before you figure out what the fuck is going on around you. It’s all puppies and rose petals in your inexperience. Me, on the other hand, a formidable veteran of the psychic wars, first mate on the starship whatthefuckjusthappened. I’m going to let you off with a warming this time, but if I catch you alone in the carpool lane again I’m writing you a ticket.
Happy birthday eve!