My 42nd birthday is less than a month away. On the one hand – ew, 42.
On the other – hey! I’ll be The Answer for the entirety of 20121.
I’m actually not fazed by the upcoming calamity natal event. Truth to tell, I am a little more disconcerted by the odor coming from the kitty room. Holy vile fetor, Batman!
Thank goodness its trash day. That’s the one thing that you never hear about when you first adopt that wiggly little black kitten. At the time, all you can think is “ohlookitthefuzzywittlekitty!” But the catbox smell once she hits her geriatric years could knock as buzzard off a honeywagon2.
I should probably cut her some slack. After all, she’s approaching eleventy-billion in human years. I bet my bowels won’t be so sweet when I am her age.
What was I talking about again?
Oh, yeah. The end of the world.
How the heck did I manage to get this far without blowing something u… Hmm. What I mean to say is, I can’t believe I made it to 42. I sincerely thought that I would be dead by now. There’s probably some psychological reason that teens/young adults cannot fathom being any older than 30. Especially gothy teen/young adults who write bad poetry. However, right as I made the turn into my thirties, the Girl was born. I’ve been too busy since then to contemplate writing any exceptionally dismal poetry about caves.
Probably for the best. My poetry – all of it – was never terribly good. Lots of gloomy references and more adjectives than the traffic could bear. Emily Dickenson would’ve wept3.
1 – In very fact, my birthday – the day I turn 43 – is the end of the world, according to certain prophets and other lunatics. Consider this your warning: The chocolate had better be phenomenal, or POOF! No more world for you.
2 – You will never guess where I heard that particular phrase.
3 – Not in a good way, either.