Buy Michael's books:

It’s My Birthday.

It’s My Birthday.

I mean it. Really. As in March 30. And I’m 27 today. Twenty-seven. That’s three-hundred and sixty-five days older than I was this time last year. I’m fifty-two weeks closer to 30, one year closer to forty. And it’s a damned shame.

Why do we get “older”? That word just means obsolescence. It’s not until fifty or so that you get to be a “classic”…which may or may not be a bad thing. So why does aging freak me out so badly?

And why is it that I have absolutely nothing planned for today? Right now, I’m lying on the sofa, watching Dallas reruns while my clothes die. What an uneventful day.

Talk to you later.