Shit. Normally birthdays are just another day to me, nothing too special to get worked up about. But today, I am approximately Thirty Five of your human years old.

Thirty Five.

That’s half way between thirty and forty. As TISM so eloquently put it – “Forty years of living then death, thats all that’s left”.

The problem is I don’t feel old. In my mind I’m still a 25 year-old who’s into fast cars, hot chicks, and noisy music. Only last weekend for instance, I was running around the living room in my underpants, pogo-ing to the Jesus Lizard while my girlfriend was in the bathroom apparently saying to herself “Oh my god! my boyfriend is a teenager”.

Thirty Five.

I have no mortgage, I am not married nor have I produced progeny. When my father was thirty five I was already thirteen years old and in my second year of high school. That thought scares me. Is it time to start creating little Robbies and Robertas? Not sure I’m ready for that either.

I believe theres only one way to force myself out of this melancholic state and that is to turn myself into an alcoholic state. Celebrate a birthday the way it should be celebrated, by getting drunk. Oliver Reed drunk. Charles Bukowski drunk. How many drinks will that take I wonder?

Thirty five should do it.