Today, February 27th (at 3:35 p.m., specifically), marks the completion of my 24th year on this earth. Many people said I’d never make it to 24, citing a number of reasons ranging from my germ-ridden championing of the “Occupy Public Trash Cans” movement, to my unpopular opinion that Burn Notice is the best television show ever made and anyone who claims otherwise deserves to be cast into an industrial waffle iron and griddled until golden brown, to my penchant for taking shots at the bar that a Center for Disease Control worker would not touch with a 50-foot stick while wearing one of those bubble suits that makes them look like a walking talking Popemobile.
But despite all that — against all odds both genetic and self-inflicted — I’m here. And it’s got me thinking.
1. 24 is a completely worthless birthday
The only good thing people have to say about 24? “You’re one year away from being able to rent a car!”
Fuck that. Why would I ever want to rent a car? I don’t trust anyone I know to not completely ruin anything they touch — rental cars included. My friends are all like King Midas, except instead of destroying things in a cool way by turning them into gold, all they do is turn things into destroyed versions of their former selves. Like developing toddlers, they can dismantle but not re-create. Also like developing toddlers, they are just as likely to cry when they’ve been away from the teet for too long as they are to shoot bodily fluids and/or solids out either end of their bodies while in a rental car. That’s just the kind of people with whom I choose to associate. I love them to death, but do I trust them? Absolutely not. And that’s why I don’t ever want to be the guy whose name is on the rental car agreement.
2. 24 is the first age at which you feel like an adult
I haven’t even been 24 a full day yet and I can already feel my youth disappearing from its owner as if it were an Oscar handed out by Warren Beatty. Shit, I even found a gray hair today. It wasn’t mine — I discovered it in the Greek food I ate for lunch. But it really got me thinking: maybe my days as a carefree bitchboy are nearing their end, and my days as a miserable bitchman are beginning…
There are a lot of 22 and 23-year-old undergrads, so up until now I’ve chosen to identify with them despite the fact that I’ve been out of college since the summer of 2015. 24, though? That’s grad school/professional country. Do I seem like a grad school guy to you? I sure hope not. Most grad school programs are an investment so bad that even noted bankrupt Curt Schilling would call you stupid for considering them. So that leaves us with “professional.” Nope, that doesn’t fit either unless you’re willing to refer to a guy who makes a living compiling the best of the best crude, sexual Tinder conversations as a “professional.”
SO WHAT AM I!? Some sort of man-child hybrid? What does that even mean? Are we talking like, a midget, or are we talking two 12-year-olds in a trench coat trying to sneak into an R-rated movie? Do we consider Matty B a man-child since he’s woke like an adult but still has the curfew of a child? Thus far, 24 has rung in more questions than answers.
3. 24 is tough to swallow, but at least I don’t have to LIE about where I was BORN
Right here in the good ol’ U.S. of A, baby. You know who can’t say the same? Panamanian national John McCain.
Show me the birth certificate, John. It’s my birthday..