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Thirty Fucking Six

Today is my birthday, as everyone and their mother on FaceBook have been so happy to remind me. And I am 36, which is on the wrong side of the 30’s, thus beginning the fast slide to 40.

Back when I was a kid, I wanted nothing more than to ride that merry-go-round – and the faster it went the better. I couldn’t wait to be an adult, to go to adult places, to leave the stupidity and childishness of youth behind. Because of that, I didn’t make for a very fun or beloved child. I see that now, and if you can’t find happiness as a child, it’s doubly difficult to find happiness as an adult.

But there were glimpses of a smile, and more than my fair share of laughter – especially on the day when it was the practice of the world to wish me happiness. Ironically, for someone who celebrates himself every day of the year, my birthday has never been a big event. Tucked quietly into the tail-end of the summer, it passes without fanfare. Tomorrow night, however, it will be back to the usual hype and hoopla, crowned with a super surprise announcement… made right here.

So, there you have it. I am 36.
I suppose it could be worse – that could be my waist size. (It’s not. Yet.)

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