Well, it’s happening.
No matter how much I try to deny it, regardless of how much I drink to forget it, and notwithstanding my habit of simply ignoring it, I’m still getting older. Bitches.
Today, I hit another milestone — it’s my 34th birthday. Thirty-four is a pretty easy one, really — hell, if I weren’t married, I might not have even noticed today was the day.
(Yeah, we old farts tend to forget things. You know the story.)
Anyway, there’s no real trauma associated with turning thirty-four. You want birthday trauma, read my post from a year ago today, when I talked about turning twenty-eight. Now that sucked ostrich ass, people. Feathery, gooey, sweaty ostrich ass.
(And yes, I know ostriches don’t sweat, dammit. It’s a figure of fricking speech — haven’t you ever heard anyone bitch about ‘sweaty ostrich ass’ before? Sheesh.)
Look, the state of the posteriors of flightless birds isn’t the point. This time. The point is, there’s nothing terribly awful about turning thirty-four. It’s not a round number, there’s no associated milestone, it’s not even a move to the next demographic. Next year, that’s gonna be tough — a year and a day from now, I won’t be in that all-important 18-34 age bracket any more. That’s gonna suck. None of the new network shows or blockbuster films or crazy advertising that I love so dearly will be targetted at me any longer. That bums me out, just a little.
On the other hand, maybe I’ll finally find Everybody Loves Raymond entertaining, like doddering grandmas and slow-witted octagenarians the world over. Oh god, please just kill me now. What’s next — Golden Girls? Bah.
Eh, now I’m just depressing myself. Fuck it — I’m gonna go shotgun a couple of beers or something to cheer up. Or maybe I’ll try sliding down our hill on a trash can lid. I’ve only got another year to get all this crazy childish shit out of my system, you know — another 365 days, and I’ll be due to be fitted for a shawl and my very own rocking chair. Matlock, here I come. Poopstain!Permalink | 9 Comments