No New Tale to Tell, Twenty-Six Years on the Way to Hell

Aww, you shouldn't have!

Well, tomorrow's my birthday. I cling to my mid-twenties with bleeding fingernails, to be cruelly shoved into the abyss of my late-twenties next year. Instead of trying to round up all my friends into a bar they wouldn't be in if I didn't make them, drinking too much, seeing my ex on the train, then vomiting profusely upon arriving home (last year's celebrations), this year I'm going to the fine state of Rhode Island to celebrate with A. (Call me, Buddy! Get on yer best toupee! Drinks are on us!)

When I go through a hard time, I often think that maybe a future me is encouraging myself to get through it because shit gets better eventually. While I do get really down about life sometimes, I'd say I'm fairly optimistic. At this time last year I'd just been dumped, I was beginning to realize I lived in a shithole, I was totally broke in a scary way, and I knew I needed a new job. One year later I'm... well, still single but pretty okay with that, I live in an apartment that's great, I'm broke in a less scary way, and I have the job I thought it would take me years of freelancing to get. Last night my girls and I went to dinner, and I realized my friend Colleen was celebrating her one-year wedding anniversary this weekend.

"Holy shit," A said, "where did that year go?"

"Well," I replied, "I was miserable for about six months of it, so I guess that's where it went for me."

But I've got no complaints now. It all worked out for the best. So if you need me, I'll be drinking 'Gansett IN 'Gansett and rocking out to the Police to celebrate my good fortune.