I turned 36 last week. I’ve got fatty liver disease (eye-roll). Oh and I fell knees first on my front porch. I’m getting my injuries in early for the year.

I really didn’t like having my birthday. It seems with each year I am more and more sad and wounded when it comes around. I haven’t saved the world. I haven’t traveled. I haven’t become a famous poet. None of the plausible goals I set for myself ever get reached.

“…Even if there were still time and faith enough for you to change into something else, most likely you wouldn’t even want to change, and even if you did, you wouldn’t have done anything, perhaps because there really was nothing for you to change into…” -Notes From Underground

Maybe 36 is just too old. I think oldness comes a lot sooner than people realize. I do things I like for fun and to try to keep myself amused. But my paintings aren’t anything and my writing is anything but certain.

[A girl I roomed with in college has the ugliest children]

I could be out of options for this life. Jennifer Leigh Coss has run her course of possibilities. I’m just in my thirties with some hobbies and a knee so scuffed there’s puss forming and a scab coming and now how can I ride my stationary bike?

I can’t. I’ve got to be still for a while. Maybe that’s a good thing.

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