birthday

Spoiler alert, in case you didn’t know: my mom and I share the same birthday. Yep, it was a little present from me to be born on the happiest day of her life–although, she berates me for it a lot of the time. What can I say? I’m a surprise wherever I end up, at least, that’s what people tell me.

People don’t actually tell me that. I just told a white lie.

Ahem. I turned eighteen yesterday. Lotsa fun. Happy times. Got a cake. And a car.

Let me rephrase that–I got the license plate and the keys for the car my dad and I have been building since last summer. There, now that sounds better, doesn’t it? It’s a 64 Chevy Nova, you know, just a pretty friggin awesome vehicle for driving around while wearing sunglasses and blasting Mozart–whoah, big mistake, I meant rock and roll.

I realized something while I was celebrating, while I walked five miles all by my lonesome and contemplated–well, things. Age is not a determinant of who you are, or who you will become, it’s a milestone, a telling of how far you’ve come. You can be six years old and be a total jack ass–and, speaking of which, that’s probably true in most cases. On the other half, you could be sixty years old and never have accomplished your life’s dream. Sad, yes, but sadly also true.

I am at the age where folks look at you as an adult, or, a guy who knows how to plunge a toilet. I have responsibilities now, massive ones, that, granted, can be spread out over time. And what I’ve heard the most?

Life is going to slip by you in a snap.

A frightening thought for a man on the edge of his adult life.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, I don’t believe most of that advice. I see life as happening fast, sure; but I feel I’ll make the most of it. Really, it’s the best you can do with how much time is given. Make the most of it. If not…then maybe those words speak some truth.

I don’t know. I’m only eighteen, haven’t experienced much yet.

All I can hope for is that it’ll be fun.

Think daily,

A Southpaw

This just in–my eighteenth birthday is on the approach! I need cake, presents, and a whole lot of guests; and I want it done double time, soldiers! I want you moving so fast you can hear brain juice sloshing around in your head! And if any of you wise guys get nauseous, it’s fifty laps for you!

Sorry about that, folks, just up in arms over this birthday thing. I mean, I’m just turning eighteen, which is nothing, right? Another age in the span of our super long lives, with the exception of twenty one…if you know what I mean. I at least understand its significance, that of becoming an adult, a man, or so they say, who pays bills and files taxes and works a job, otherwise known as all the boring stuff that comes with adulthood.

I’m like Peter Pan, but not as insane. See, Peter wanted to stay young, and everyone was cool. They said, “Hey, you go, Pan. We’re gonna be over here finding success and making families.” Then Peter got freaking weird and stole other kids from their homes so he wouldn’t be lonely in Neverland. If I remember correctly, Peter butchered the children who grew older than him.

Talk about stunted puberty.

All of you adults out there, I’m sure you know that superior feeling of independence you also get from adulthood. One time I went out to the movies, by myself, and bought a ticket, by myself, and watched the movie, by myself–and a bunch of other strangers who farted and laughed at weird parts of the movie. Then again, that might have been me the whole time.

It was The Conjuring 2, a horror movie. If I’m laughing out loud because there’s a super obvious hint to the ending of the plot, and no one else laughs, then there’s probably something wrong with me. It’d be a good idea to go see a psychologist, or a psychiatrist–I’m not too sure which is which anymore, but I know they both do screwy things to your already screwed up brain.

Birthday party’s gonna be kicking, though, ’cause I’m inviting all these epic rock bands and they’re set to play their greatest hits until midnight, then, when they’ve finished, we’ll shoot off those professional fireworks you always see in New York–those damn New Yorkers get all the fancy crap–and eat chips and salsa until everyone crashes on the lawn.

So, sort of the best party in the history of anything.

Can’t wait to be eighteen! If any of you cultured people got any tips of what to do once I cross the big eight one–wait, I mean one eight, then please, do let me know. I’ll follow some of them, then trash the rest.

Kidding, of course, but I’m not eighteen yet, so I can still lie and get away with it.

Think daily,

A Southpaw