Devil Monkey Boy

The heavens have not opened up. No rays of sunshine to light upon my face. No animated bluebirds on my shoulder. That's the truth. It's actual. Everything dissatisfactual.

No matter how many times I have one of these things, I still expect that my birthday will be somehow different that the days that precede and follow it. But, of course, it never is. It always fits the mood of the times. My last two birthdays were two of my best ever, certainly my best since adulthood. They raised the bar, which is fine if you're doing the limbo but not so good if you're doing hurdles. These days I'm jumping hurdles, in Limbo. And that's something else entirely.

Those birthdays were a product of their times, and their magic doesn't carry over.

This won't be thirty, surrounded by all of my closest friends and family. It won't be thirty-one, bowling and in love. But neither will it be nineteen, learning of my parent's impending separation. And it won't be twenty-one, working sixteen hours for a thankless bastard. It'll be thirty-two, somewhere in between. It'll be now. It'll be okay.