See, today's my birthday. I'm turning 27, which is when all the rock stars kick. Jim Morrison, Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Kurt Cobain, you know the litany. But I am still pretty convinced I'm young, and even more convinced that I've got mad motherfucking rock star style. There is, unfortunately, a bit of credible evidence to the contrary. Like the conspicuous lack of drugs and guitars in my life. Although I did take some Sudafed last week when my sinuses were acting up.
I'm not giving up yet, though. I might just be a folk rocker or something. It's still quite possible I'll soon find myself on a tour bus, not sure which town I'm going to or which one I just left, still reeling from the previous night's excesses and arranging for various types of aquatic creatures to be assembled in my suite for tonight's perverted display of bacchanalian hedonism. But if not, I figure my easy out will be to choke on a ham sandwich, thus proving what a goddamned rock star I am. That's my backup plan.
Well, I see my roadies are starting to assign tonight's prospective groupies into their categories, applying my careful taxonomy of wants, needs, preferences and depraved desires, so it's time for me to cut this short.
Meanwhile, thanks for reading. The past year has been the hardest, and most satisfying, of my entire life. I've truly never been happier to be alive, or more excited about my life. That's a present so good, you can't even put it on your Amazon wishlist. A happy birthday, indeed.
]]>He's not a porn star, Fan Club P., and since all the negatives and dubbed copies of that bootleg have been destroyed or placed under court order, I'll ask you to withdraw that statement.
Stan: Our consultants have bigger plans for the Dash brand. Initial plans did involve a prune-based drink, but have fallen through from what I hear. We'll keep you in the loop on his product-endorsement schedule for a small fee. Um, Oliver might be handling that, actually ...
But forget all that B.C. business. You know, and I know, that every year is a good one when you're counting it as A.D.
]]>Look on the bright side, if you make it past 27, you can look forward to dying at 32, which will put you in pretty good company: Jesus, Alexander the Great, Joyce Kilmer and Rob Pilatus (but apparently not that deadat32.com guy).
]]>Be glad you're not turning 30 next year :(
]]>No. I guess you'll hafta put "Puddle of my own vomit" on there instead.
]]>J.
]]>:o)
And many more too.
]]>This is fun. I turned 27 on Sept. 3rd. I live in NYC. I'm a web programmer... AND... I have an obsessive love for Prince.
Are we related?
]]>I have been married longer than you have been alive.
]]>Hope you had a wonderful day.
]]>Oh, btw, Robert Johnson, King of the Delta Blues, also died at 27, allegedly of either a voodoo curse or by poison at the hands of a lover's jealous husband. Both seem like cooler ways to go than choking on your own vomit.
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