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| "How old is he?" "He's so old, he's using us to make a joke!" |
I'm thirty three now. The number sounds...odd (get it?). Like a pair of brand new shoes, it just doesn't fit right. No doubt in time I'll get used to the idea of being thirty three. Right around a few weeks until my 34th birthday.
I'm having a poor time adjusting, if I can be honest. When my 30th birthday rolled around I handled it in the best way possible: I used it as an excuse to take a week long trip to Vegas in the hopes that I would conveniently forget the fact that my twenties had withered and died, only to rise from the ashes as my thirties, not unlike a phoenix. An older, decrepit, crotchety phoenix that needs to invest in some Depend Underwear.
You see where I'm going with this, right?
The point being, I entered my thirties full of hope, of aspirations of awesome. Because to be honest, my twenties weren't all that pleasant- other than that whole youthfulness thing. I spent all of my twenties miserable and broke. I had hoped that by the time my thirties crept up, I would have overcome that little hurdle and figured shit out.
Fast forward to today, the beginning of my third year of my third decade, and I have come to one conclusion: I cannot adult. I'm still broke, and still miserable. Except now I have a mountain of debt to go along with the standard all purpose misery that buzzes angrily in the background of my day to day world like white noise. But I've bitched about that often enough; at this point, what can I say that's any different from bitching I've already been doing since I started writing this thing?
Instead, let's review the last year.
Surprisingly, Year 32 had some not-too-terrible moments to add spice to the otherwise bland Suck Soup I subsist on daily.
1. I met a pretty lady who would become one of my closest friends. Okay, that technically happened at PAX last year a few weeks before my 32nd birthday, but I'm still going to count it. The point being, she has been someone whom I could talk and vent at all year without worrying about being judged. True, good friends are hard to find in this world, and I'm happy to have found another to add to my small collection.
2. With some encouragement (nagging) from another friend, I finally got off my hump and got back into acting. With her assistance (nonstop flailing of the arms as she lectured at me), I even managed to get represented by one of the best talent agencies in the Seattle area.
3. I finally gave in to my aspirations at becoming a professional writer and began the arduous process of writing a book. While there have been numerous twists and turns (a lot of whining,procrastinating, and binge watching of netflix), I'm happy to say that the first, really rough draft is near completion. 74,478 words of word vomit sit on my computer-- and a few usb drives to be safe (paranoid). While it is still unfinished, and nowhere near being anything remotely resembling good, it is technically a novel.
4. I got to meet one of my idols (someone whom I look upon with great envy in addition to respect).
As I reflect on this past year, I'm forced to acknowledge some painful events-- the passing of my grandmother being the worst. I lived in an awful area for most of that time, under cramped and uncomfortable conditions. I've had my stuff stolen multiple times. I suffered through difficult financial burdens-- which still haunt me like an overly handsy Ghost of Christmas Past.
I can't shake the disquieting sensation that my life just continues to slip by, like fine sand through half-numbed fingers. While I'm probably still a little young for a mid-life crisis, if I keep up in my current direction, I may get an early start on one. Another year past is another year gone forever, one in which I didn't do so many things that I want to do. For instance, I've still never left the country-- not counting the three or so hours spent driving through Canada to reach Anchorage.
So this year, I'm going to work on doing all those little things.
I don't know how well things will go, but I will declare this: by September 18th of next year, I will either be a published author, or well on my way to becoming one. The silly little word document of verbal excrement I've written thus far is just eight or nine chapters away from completion. Then comes the editing, the shameful tears and fits of explosive rage. Then more editing. Repeat until complete.
That way, when I'm writing next years birthday reflection, I'll be able to describe in great detail how awful writing is and bemoan those life choices.
Assuming I haven't given up writing all together and accepted my fate as just another listless drone shuffling from one crap job to the next until the Grim Reaper comes along and offers sweet, sweet release.
Happy Birthday to me.
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