Five and Twenty Years Now January 29, 2004 - 5:12 a.m.

So I'm twenty-five today.

That sucks.

It's not that I have a problem with being twenty-five. It's just a number after all. A number that simply tells everyone how many years you've been utilizing your lungs. A number that tells people how far you've gotten. How much closer you are to the end. Counting down, in reverse.

No, I have no problem with being numbered. I have no problem saying 'Yeah, I'm twenty-five'. I have no problem getting looks because I don't look twenty-five. I'm not worried that the candles on my birthday cake will be a fire hazard or that blue hair and Medicare aren't too far away. I don't care that babies just now being born will think I'm too old to understand their generation. I'll just keep that in mind when they ask me to buy them beer because they're underage.

Twenty-five is nothing. I've been legally able to buy cigarettes, vote, buy alcohol or guns, or anything of the sort for at least four years now. There's no milestone to be appreciative of, just as there's no drawback to be wary of.

Twenty-five feels no different that ten or seventeen or possibly even forty-three. There's no problem with being twenty-five.

What I do have a problem with is having survived through twenty-five years, a quarter of a century, and accomplishing jack shit the entire time.

My problem lies within. With the angst and self-loathing and the lack of motivation. My problem is that I feel like I've wasted so much time, but I realize the realization alone simply won't change how I treat my time. My problem, is all about disappointment. Not in life, per se, but in myself. Though life often feels poopy, I can't blame it for my choices. Or lack of choices. But I'm often wanting to blame it for not presenting me with better opportunities. Regardless of who's truly responsible.

Don't think I'm sitting here dwelling on this, being mopey and depressed. Because I'm not. I just had this thought of what this particular birthday means to me, and figured I'd write it out. Not that I really feel the need to explain myself, either. I just didn't want anyone to get a pathetic image of me sitting here, on my birthday, and being all boo hoo. Because that simply isn't the case. I have the thoughts and emotions, sure, but I also don't care enough to worry about them right now. It's a passing thing. I think about it, say 'that sucks', and move on.

Despite this crappy bit of introspection, I'm going to try to enjoy this day doing the things that I love. Like watching movies and playing games. Because I fucking can. Also, we're hitting the grocery store at some point to buy spaghetti and crap that doesn't need to be refrigerated. Maybe we'll get a box of Little Debbie's snack cakes and stick a candle in one. Otherwise we're going out to eat on Saturday with the family. Going to use the gift certificates we received at Christmas. So there's a nice meal at a real restaurant in my very near future.

And they might even bring me free dessert while singing a silly restaurant-style birthday song.

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