Another year come and gone, and I want to feel sorry for myself, and yet I feel like a bastard, considering how well things are going.

You can’t have everything. There is no such thing as perfect in this world.

I mean, I could be happier.

I am tired. In that last, final sprint to the finish line after a marathon run, it becomes a test of will. I can feel my spirit falter, quivering like a flickering candle flame. There are no guarantees from here until the finish, only that I so very much want to reach the finish line, to attain the culmination of more than two decades of education.

Nothing in this world is ever certain. Those who believe otherwise are a menace to society and should be locked up.

At this age, it starts feeling less and less like it matters, although the big 3-0 still looms up ahead. If I feel like this now, what will happen then?

I don’t really want to find out.

But, like all good birthdays, I am writing all of this shit while I am drunk.

Yipeekayay.

Nothing can stop me now, I just don’t care anymore. (With apologies to Trent Reznor.)