This is the twenty-ninth time I sit down to write

something meaningful, and fail, instead resorting

to imagining what life will be when I am not now,

when I am twenty-nine. Will my words be something

meaningful then? Will they fall around me, my house

of cards, collapsed under the weight of self-involvement?

It will be called My Golden Birthday, the collection of

words and failures and all those home-improvement-projects.

It used to seem so far away: twenty-nine, a distant magical

moment when my friends would gather and celebrate

some meaningless thing like my birth. Now I know better.

It ain’t so far off now, and I can see what it will be.

Just another day to rack up the dusty numbers,

cue the break(down), and play a drunken game of pool.



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