One week until my birthday. It sneaks up on me year after year, and year after year I move a little further away from youth and comfort. I’ll be 27 next Monday.
I know that every angsty person clad in black says this, but when I was young, I never expected to make it past 25. Not because I’m some kind of JAMES DEAN DANGEROUS LIVING REBEL WOOOOO or anything — but because of my father, and everything that comes along with being his son. On the off-chance that I somehow make it to 30, I had figured, I’ll be some strange new ‘old’ person, full of wisdom and responsbility and experience.
Now that I’m nearly there, I see that this is not the case. If and when I make it to 30, I will be the same person, foolish and irresponsible, only with a few more years of experience at said foolishness.
When I was much younger, I said that the best part of growing up is the fact that you don’t have to. This may still be the case, but I’m getting older regardless.
I own more things right now than I’ve ever owned in my life; I have a good computer, a good video game system, a great TV, a lot of fantastic books and a lot of amazing music. I don’t know if it’s survivor guilt left over from Rideau Street, but I have way too much when so many people have so little. How can I ask for a new gadget or another pair of boots when my house is so full that I need to give away boxes of old things just so I can fit new things in their place?
If any of you had plans to pick me up a card or a little toy or something, please take that two or three dollars and buy a street kid something to eat instead. That would be a wonderful birthday gift.