Getting older has not bothered me. I turned 20 happy that I was no longer a kid. My 30th birthday felt like a milestone in that I had passed the all-knowing 20’s into the “I don’t know shit” 30’s. It was liberating. Nearing 35 I gained confidence in myself and became less-likely to tolerate what I considered to be bullshit.
But now 36 is here. I’m not happy about this one.
In fact, I’m a little pissed off about it. In fact, 36 can go f*ck itself with a razor-laden broomstick for all I care.
That’s right, 36, go f*ck yourself.
Another one for you, 36, here’s Johnny Cash giving you the international symbol for “f*ck you”. Do your worst, you slimy f*ck.
The average life expectancy for American men is 78.7 years. The bright side is that 36 is only halfway to 72, but I’m getting close to the real halfway mark. Right now I’m trying to figure out how to handle my mid-life crisis. So far, I’m focusing more on writing. Since I was 16 I’ve been involved in writing and/or publishing. So it seems good enough to settle into for a while. My aunt says I need to get to a writing retreat. We’ll see.
What else can I do to cope with this new age? I’m going to pick up the bass guitar soon. I’ve been playing guitar for years, but really want to learn how to lay down a thick, funky-ass groove. I’d like to have a girlfriend or two, but unless I can talk my wife into that one I don’t think it’s going to happen. We’ll see.
The next year I curse will be 37. Unless I’m doing incredibly well. We’ll see how that one pans out too.