Every year on my birthday I wake up and then I probably get back in bed and sleep for a couple more house. Then I wake up and blast “Mother’s Little Helpers” by the Rolling Stones to highlight that I am getting old.
Usually I do it in panties and a t-shirt and knee socks and I dance around and jump on the bed and just enjoy my moment.
Every year the same thing. Every year getting older.
I don’t feel older. If anything, I feel younger, dumber and more irresponsible. It’s almost as if I am going back in time and by the time I am officially a senior citizen I will be a full fledged emotional and psychological paramecium brain.
But I like the thought of that because you’re supposed to fall apart. My body is already doing that. When I want to be depressed, I just think how terribly crippled I’ll be by the time I’m 50 and then I go out and slay a bunch of men like I am the last knight in a battle of the ages.
Slaying men might be the only thing that placates me anymore. Which is weird and sad. Sometimes I really have to wonder if I am in it for the prize of eternal (or whatever people call it) companionship or if I really am ok floating around and experiencing as many people and problems as possible.
And every time I sit down to write one of my exploits, a news story or even an interview I think about how boring life could be and I have my answer.
