It’s my
birthday today. Forty-five years. I’m not sure what that means, or if it means
anything specifically, or even if it's supposed to.
I’m not much of a sentimentalist, although birthdays
and New Years are about the only national holidays that I don’t consider
hypocritical in most ways. They remain what they have always been: reasons to
party. And numbers don’t mean much either, do they? I appreciate the experience that the extra time provides, and occasionally wish I’d known then what I know now, but I had to not know it
at some point to be able to learn it, right? Chickens, eggs, always getting us
into arguments.
