Look at this: twenty-three years old and calm as a Zen cucumber. Okay, so I don’t really know what that means, but I will put it in the simplest terms possible: twenty-three ain’t all that bad, especially when the best thing about it is all the people wishing you a happy birthday. Yes, somebody alert Hallmark that I have a new sentimental card idea—I’ve gone sappy as a maple tree.
Seriously, though, I feel very grateful to have friends coast to coast now who have been calling in like I’m the hottest radio station around to wish me the best of birthdays. When that happens, you almost want nothing in terms of gifts. Two or three years ago, nuh-uh, would not have been standing for it. Where’s the new CD? Where’s the new book? Huh? It’s my sweet sixteen!!! All that has gone to the wayside now. Sure, that Allen Ginsberg collection is tempting and I do wish I had a few new tunes. Yet at the heart of the matter: I have a home, I have a job, I’ve a girlfriend, and I have my health. Complaints…naah! The rest of my white, middle-class brethren are flooding the market with whiny anecdotes about how hard their lives are (for more on this, watch MTV Real Life: I’m a Shop-a-holic).
Last night I went out with my buddy Justin to a party with some of his friends that I’m slowly corralling to be my friends. Anyways, long story short: great party, interesting people, lots of booze, and an end time of
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