In the Midcourse of Our Life

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Good News: It's my birthday! :-)
Bad News: I'm 35! :-(

Being 35 isn't the problem. And it isn't really that I reached this age without acquiring a career, a home of my own, or the prospect of either. The problem is that my misspent youth wasn't misspent enough to justify living in such a precarious position.

Being raised multilingually until age 15, then another 15 years intermittently traveling around the world in a truck, reading great books, swallowing fascinating drugs and having clinically dangerous amounts of sex...that would have been a worthwhile early life.

Instead, I got the traditionally useless English schooling, an abortive career programming computers, and I've never been further afield than the Latin Quarter of Paris. Most of the books had "introduction" in the title, the drugs were antidepressants and the sex is more a way of making up for the rest.

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Still, now seems a good time to do something about those aspects of my life which I can change. There's a list of songs in front of me, and a computer with enough music software to make any sound I've got the patience to engineer. The basement is full of exercise machines and the kitchen is full of healthy food with no chocolate at all - me and mother are on the same diet.

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But before all that, a celebratory night out with some of my more debauched comrades. There shall be much drinking, bitching, and telling of bad jokes. And possibly some singing, philosophical discussion, and half-serious offers of oral sex, depending on just how much we drink.

And tomorrow I start being a better person.

You don't believe me, do you? I'm not sure I do. But I'm going to try hard.

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A nice present from mother - a digital dictaphone. The modern equivalent of carrying around pen and paper to record inspirations that hit you at odd moments. Much as the text messages and virtual greetings cards I've received today are the modern version of telegrams and printed cards.

It's also an alarm clock, and a reminder system - so I can record a message for myself to play back at a certain time, and remind me to do things. I've a feeling the irony is that anyone organised enough to use such a system is too organised to need it.

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UPDATE: I think that's what they call a blowout. I am now so full of rich food and alcoholic drink, I never want to see another buscuit ever again.

Simon M gave me a birthday gift, and this is one occasion when I wish I had a working camera. Because it's a tardis. A foot high plastic tardis, together with two editions of Dr Who magazine and some stickers. I have no idea what I'm supposed to do with it, especially as it broke as soon as I put it together. But after a little dab of superglue, I'll have to find somewhere prominant to display it.

Anyway, I don't like talk about new beginnings, because they lose their plausibility from there being so many of them. But it's high time I took more care of this structure of flesh that houses my thoughts.

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