On being 23
My life has its odds and ends. This year, its an odd, and hopefully not an end. I'll be 23 on Friday, and the mere thought of leaving the safety and comfort of 22 is paralyzing. Its my sweet supple nipple of my known existence ripped from my all too complacent hands. And thus is how I explain birthdays.
Should I wake Friday morning(and this should be an ever increasing fear given the lessened odds of my survival), I shall find myself in a situation never experienced before: self sufficiency. Yes, granted I rely on my mother for insurance, my grandmother for guidance and my girlfriend for stability, I still provide for my life from the spoils of my hunt. Lost are my days of pure slumber, days that started at noon and ended when head met pillow; damned be the time of such greetings.
Now mornings are brought with audio graffiti, races with the sun often won on my behalf, for large balls of flamming gas see it too lazy to match my speed. The feeling of being alone in ones start is prevalent through the slothlike movements of partner in bed, partaking in the additional allotted time for her slumber. Slow, staggered walks towards known fuzzy objects become pregame ritual. From there, a series of automatic motions moves my still dormant mind to the necessary fields of interest: shower, clothes, car. A simple turn of the key winds my beaten motor, and my day is acast to to the lines of others in my environment. My sense of self righteous behavior in being responsible are often tossed to the wind that trails the fully loaded semi barreling down the 10...
Let me sum it up this way: I'm getting older and I hate it. Now where's my fucking martini?
Should I wake Friday morning(and this should be an ever increasing fear given the lessened odds of my survival), I shall find myself in a situation never experienced before: self sufficiency. Yes, granted I rely on my mother for insurance, my grandmother for guidance and my girlfriend for stability, I still provide for my life from the spoils of my hunt. Lost are my days of pure slumber, days that started at noon and ended when head met pillow; damned be the time of such greetings.
Now mornings are brought with audio graffiti, races with the sun often won on my behalf, for large balls of flamming gas see it too lazy to match my speed. The feeling of being alone in ones start is prevalent through the slothlike movements of partner in bed, partaking in the additional allotted time for her slumber. Slow, staggered walks towards known fuzzy objects become pregame ritual. From there, a series of automatic motions moves my still dormant mind to the necessary fields of interest: shower, clothes, car. A simple turn of the key winds my beaten motor, and my day is acast to to the lines of others in my environment. My sense of self righteous behavior in being responsible are often tossed to the wind that trails the fully loaded semi barreling down the 10...
Let me sum it up this way: I'm getting older and I hate it. Now where's my fucking martini?