digression: Happy Birthday, Knox
As many of you who read my site know, I was never told what day I was born. This doesn’t mean I don’t celebrate my birthday each year. It’s just that I get to choose what day, and I don’t know what day it is until I wake up — feeling a year older. Digging through some old stuff the other day, I found a journal entry from my 26th birthday. I hope you all enjoy it.
I woke up this morning with the realization that I’m 26 and I haven’t done too many things I’m all that proud of. Perhaps I almost have two completed degrees and I’ve traveled the world and got naked with many beautiful women, but so have most people I know. And what do I do now? I write a marginally successful newspaper column under a pen name that makes me no money and wasn’t really even my idea in the first place. I’m about to work in the back of an ambulance only to live along the poverty line. I have no health insurance. I’m a recovering—well, never you mind what I’m recovering from. I’m a recently fired bartender—which reminds me, I’m also well on my way to becoming a full-fledged (though high-functioning) alcoholic.
I do know that I don’t write nearly enough, at least not about things I care about. The only things I do really well these days are accumulate scars, exercise and live on a tight budget. I can live on a meal-and-a-half a day, costing me $2, and then a couple of 40 ounce Miller High Lifes —and run five miles and bench press over 200 pounds with relative ease. Yet, somehow I don’t find that the least bit notable. And who would? It’s like being able to turn a piece of cardboard into an Eggo Waffle; maybe a cool party trick, but ultimately nobody cares.
So, again, I wonder, if the above-mentioned details are facts (and I believe they mostly are), shouldn’t I be unhappy?
Ha. Who the hell cares? I guess there’s something to be said for just rolling with it. Don’t fight the current. Just don’t ever stop swimming, that’s all. Create things, tell stories, make love, leave something behind other than a mile-long list of pissed off exes and a crippling debt.
Anyway, happy birthday, you son of a bitch. May this next year be better than the last.
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