Last month, I turned 30.

I normally spend my birthday hiding from the world, dreading another year gained and with me slowly speeding toward being yet another old man clinging on to his youth, wearing hipster clothes, growing a ponytail, and going to gigs with people who are more than half my age. This year was no different.

And I will be AMAZING.

I STILL LOOK FABULOUS, FUCK YOU.

Nothing says mature more than me updating a blog I started seven years ago and filling it up with dick jokes like I’m 23. But seriously though, things like growing old is a pain in the ass and a tough pill to swallow. I might as well avoid a long and hard discussion on the perils of buggering my content with dick jokes.

As a sign of my maturity, I need to go about these grown-up things:

  • Remember that time I started running and failed? I started it again, only to be laughed at by the girlfriend when I mistakenly signed up for a 10K run. Did I mention that I can barely survive 3K?
  • I should start writing less posts that will make co-workers and other people I interact with on a daily basis doubt my sanity.
  • That means I should stop talking to myself too.
  • Yes, Ade, I’m serious. Stop it.
  • Ok.
  • Start complaining about my joints hurting more. To add drama and realism to my bodyache story, I should also come in to work smelling of eucalyptus oil.
  • Also, I should dress up more in a collared shirt, chinos that are a size too big, and sandals. With socks.
  • Sadly, I should stop reading comics and stop watching shows like Doctor Who. Then I should start listening to AM radio more and talk about politics with taxi drivers.
  • Grow a Max Alvarado-type mustache. Ladies love the ‘stache.
  • Also, an earring and a ponytail. To hide my bald spot.
  • Learn how to scream “GET OFF MY LAWN!” with grace.

Or maybe I’m, you know, overreacting to me hitting the big 30. I don’t know. The fact that I’m no longer in my 20’s scare the shit out of me. Hell, I’ve reached a point in my life where I’m supposed to know what to do with myself. But I may look like I have it together, but I’m just as clueless as the next twenty-something. I don’t know. I’ll figure it out somehow. Like always.

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