Well, it was bound to happen sooner or later. If you manage not to die for long enough, eventually you turn thirty. In your face, Cobain!
I'm not bummed at all, actually, which is good since most of you are over thirty already and right now giving your computer screen the same hairy eyeball that I give my 27-year-old friends who talk about their biological clocks. Why do all the girls I roll with seem to be 27? Bitches. The 70s rocked and you missed it.
Also? Hairy eyeball is like the grossest expression ever.
Anyway, I'm ready! I own my age! And I've been telling people that I'm turning 50 just to try and elicit the "Holy CRAP you look great" response. That would also mean that my mom had me when she was ten, but hey. She's always been a little promiscuous.
Ahem. No more slutty mom jokes! I expect that the next time you hear from me I'll be older and wiser and wearing a smoking jacket and discussing equities. When you're thirty, you suddenly don't feel the need to do the Thriller dance in your living room, and you're such an adult that you don't leave cooked pasta that you didn't finish on the stove for two days, right?
Fine, three days.
Tuesday is The Big Day. There's a car commercial out right now that says, "Hurry, offer ends October first!" I always reply to my TV, "So does my youth!" Yeah, no one else in the room with me laughs either.
I guess I could try to come up with some corny life lessons or something, but why bother when Kenny Rogers has already done it for me? My life has been distilled into knowing when to hold 'em, when to fold 'em, when to walk away, and when to run. Sounds about right, though, huh? Of course, at the end of the day soft rock defines my life.
Anyway, I'll pretty much be drunk with my peoples all weekend (and I define weekend as being the second that work ends tomorrow until sometime very early Wednesday morning) so I'll see you once I shake off these 20s.