Any number ending in zero is disgusting.
While driving carefree and whimsically to the beach yesterday, I realized it was the 18th of August. A mere 30 days before I turn 30 years old. Just hours after guzzling discount pitchers of American beers at a gay leather bar (Go, America. It’s called F-R-E-E-D-O-M you chicken loving twats), my compadres and I coasted to the ocean to recover from the night.
There are 30 little days and wasting until my twenties are dead and gone. So, I am going to write daily about what my twenties gave me/didn’t give me and reflect a little.
First reflection, or #30, shall we say is that I am still going out and drinking on a Friday night with my friends, and then we all haul ass to the beach. I thought when I was 21, that those days would be numbered. In many respects, I am relieved they are not. A friend of mine today mentioned the idea of being more “grown up” by 30. I think we force ourselves to be so grown up, that when we are generously aged we end up regretting it. Notions be damned, I will happily spend my summer days at the beach and my nights among friends. I know of too many retirees who try to make up for that lost time when the early signs of dementia kick in. Not I, says this 29 year old. Not I!