After a very pleasant evening of too much drinking and not enough sleep some evil bastard on my radio announced that it’s December First.
Christ. December 1. Already.
I do not think I am ready for this. In my current state of absolute apathy I can not muster any excitement for the month/time of year/upcoming adventures. Let’s run the list:
- In eight days I leave the country for a short jaunt to Dublin. Much hilarity will – hopefully – ensue. Of course, having spoken of this potentiality: serious injury, snow, ice and/or rain, the flaming destruction of airports/airplanes, etc will surely prevent me from actually going anywhere.
Oddly, I am at peace with that. It’s just the way things are.
- In nine days I’ll be thirty-one years old – wrap your mind around that one – thirty-one friggin’ years old and not one damned thing accomplished since I turned thirty years old.
Or, for that matter, since birth.
- In sixteen days Black 47 plays again in Harrisburg. Hopefully I can get tickets (like that ought to be difficult). They’ll play some good stuff and some bad stuff and probably raise the roof with the tune about that damned commie. I like that tune.
- In twenty-four days it’ll be Christmas with all its attending hassles and miseries. Only one, solitary soul has made any mention of what they want for Christmas. Fine. All of you lazy buggers are getting NOTHING. I will spend the Christmas money on myself. I deserve it.
That’s THREE eight-day WEEKS you useless buggers. Go forth. Buy me things.
- In thirty-one days it will be a New Year. Another year over, another year closer to death and another year stuck in neutral with my foot on the gas. I suppose I’ll have to do a retrospective of titanic 2004 at some point. Bah.
And strange as it may sound, I am perfectly at peace.
The slight hangover and decided shrinking of my normal sleep cycle may have something to do with this. Sorry, I forgot to take my morning dose of bourbon.