Happy birthday to me
Yes it’s me, I’m 33!
I like it because it rhymes.
The older I get the easier it is to forget that I’m getting old — it helps that I look devilishly youthful.
I may have grey hair galore, very salt and pepper, but I’ve skin as smooth as the day I was born, and people are often surprised to find out that I’m old.
Oh, I’m old — I’m grizzled some days!
James in work yesterday exclaimed his utter disbelief and I just stood there and lapped it up because honey, I’m old.
I’m a bit delusional and old.
That’s the trouble with age, it just gets higher and higher each year.
I know 33 isn’t all that old but it is when you’re not ready to adult. I’m just not mature enough to be 40 in 7 years — FOR-TY! I don’t mean to bring a downer but I saw a lot of 60s and 70s in the funeral home, I’m practically there! 80s and 90s too, and 40s and 50s — this train of thought makes me think I could drop dead any minute!
I better make the most of it
But if I do at least I’ll leave a youthful looking corpse. People will come visit me in the chapel and remark on how soft my skin looks, and “you’d never think he was so old; he doesn’t look a day over 25!”
And then I’d sit up and say: “All natural honey ’cause I was born this way.”
And then there’d be a few more bodies in the funeral home.
The day ahead
- Day off work;
- Slap-up breakfast;
- Chocolate cake;
- Doing something nice.
I’m off to vote in a bit, which is something I don’t really want to do on my birthday (damn Theresa!) but I haven’t really got a choice.
After that I’m meeting up with Myles and we’re having an overcast day on the seafront. We’re gonna watch the hovercraft, win things at the arcade, and end the day on the bus.