On the cusp of my 41st birthday, it’s inevitable that a certain amount of
melancholy or nostalgic regret seizes my attention. At least, that’s the cold
and clinical way I’d normally frame it, given my disposition. In reality,
being 40 wasn’t so bad. My life is decidedly not perfect, but perfect is the
enemy of good.
It’s hard not to consider though, the path that led me here.
At precisely 11:16PM tonight, I’ll have persisted upon this world for a grand-total of three decades. To understand the true significance of this, I believe I should clarify.
It’s been a long week, and my vacation is finally over. Late Saturday night, early Sunday morning–either tell me it’s a weekend just like any other. I relaxed, I finally got the chance to enjoy Wicked, and I tooled around downtown gulping food I don’t deserve with a woman equally beyond my reach. I got drunk, I got sick, I had fun, and I’ve got little to show for it but some new rattles in my empty head.