One Year Closer To The Worms
I’m not a big fan of birthday celebrations. “Hey, Jon, let’s eat some cake, blow out a few candles, and hit the town to get tanked!” Fuck you. If I’m gonna swoop down on the main strip to intentionally puke up a random variety of stupid, overpriced drinks, I don’t want to do it simply because I’m yet another year closer to the worms. On my birthday I like to give my sweet little mother and appropriately grumpy father a call and say “Thanks for putting up with my psycho bullshit for all these years,” which is nice, because without family I’d be six feet beneath cold earth or getting shanked on death row. But I’m not. I’m still breathing. So I took the day off to watch extremely depressing, soul-searing war movies, which shuttles me into the ideal mindset for serious introspection, which is what days like today should be all about; reflecting on who and what you are, how, exactly, you came to be that way, what, if anything, you need to alter about the course of life, and, perhaps most importantly, how completely goddamn fucked up and occasionally wonderful everything and everyone – including myself – is. You can’t lose sight of that, lest you wind up like the rest of them. And then what fun would this website be? But don’t get me wrong. I like to have fun. In fact, I’ll celebrate in my own way via working out until I vomit respectable chunks, after which time I’ll rehydrate with a bottle or two of fine red wine before getting more than a few spankings from Bad Sparkle; and, yes, maybe I’ll even eat some fucking cake. But only if it’s sugar-free.