Age Against the Machine: Happy Birthday to Me.
A Personal Note From Kevin on January 11, 2005...
Fuck you*.
Yes you, you websurfing twit.
Today marks the beginning of my 39th year. I am one year older and a bit more crusty, and I am generally NOT PLEASED.
38.001 years ago I exited the warm comfort and nutrition of the womb to visit your evil wretched planet. If it were not for the efforts of a slim few of you I would have promptly exited. Unlike the majority of you writhing little pinkies I was born aware. I've been in tune with this bullshit since day 1. I thought Vietnam was a crock of crap. I remember the Republicans expounding on their good guy Nixon and how "Watergate" was a left-wing conspiracy. I was a baby... what could I do?
As a toddler I scrounged for release in poisons that would make me dizzy, and before kindergarten I would spin in circles to make reality less harsh or possibly wacky. It would be 16 more years before I could legally purchase intoxicants that would allay my distain for the status quo.
Thirty years ago I was eight. I was into dinosaur models. Part of it was for the buzz of science and paleontolgy, part of it was for the love of heady adhesives that would make my brain bubble.
Twenty years ago this day I drank a lot of different kinds of stuff. I wound up passed out in my 1973 Ford Maverick, running warmly in front of Mama Lush's house, a local freakwoman that let us use her house as a center of teenage debauchery. While I silently slept off the gallon of whiskey and bong vapors, some local teen hero fueled by a a head full of anti-drunk-driving crap, opened my car door, took my keys and left me to freeze to death in the January cold. Luckily I had an extra set, and then drove carefully home.
Ten years ago I woke up in a Speedo on a mildewed futon with 12 gauge shotgun and an empty bottle of tequila. I don't know if I got the idea to pull a Cobain or what happend, but I was apparently too drunk to pull the trigger. Small miracles. It all came from the fact that my shitstain for a wife left me home and alone on my birthday so she could bone a local yahoo. Scum Queen. Her actions made me feel unimportant and ultimately discardable.
That morning I grew a sack, a big one full of manly content.
Ten years later I am a confident, keen scientist that has insulated himself from the evil minutia of life with an outstanding layer of friends and family. I got rid of all of my dragging anchors. I have a groovy, beautiful wife, a dog, a job and a daily ritual that makes me sharper every single day. I have achieved my nirvana... I surround myself with people that respect me (and know CPR).
Now I am either your best friend or your worst nightmare. Loyalty or distain, you get to pick. I'll give you a big warm hug or eat the eyeballs out of your stupid head with an oyster fork, it is up to you.
38 years ago I was a relatively ineffective hours-old post-fetus. Now I've got a handle on the situation and can't wait to see how 10 more years will shape me. As I age, I need a sturdier crust to contain the substantially ballooning content. I wish I were 48, 58, 108 today! With each year I settle for less bullshit. The future looks damn good and I can't wait to see you there.
With Feeling,
Kevin F.
*Just u im losers that dont spel 4 shit
posted by Schmootzie @ 1:00 AM
2 Comments:
Felicitations and congratulations on entering your 39th year. "Living well is the best revenge." Sounds like you're well on your way to that goal. Good intellect, good wife, good life. And please remember, plenty of fresh fruits and vegetables.
Some little advice from Isabella:
Never, never run for a bus, there'll always be another, and stay out of little Italian cars.
That's it.
Oh, and here's a birthday poem for you. It's not just about cooking, either:
Appetite
I've a tendency to practice
laying out victuals on the off chance
a feast will result.
In a kitchen lacking
counter space, anticipation piles up
among items of a menu in revolt --
leeks/love/lodestars,
a wealth of sticky surfaces.
But look: there could be
hands washed to the wrist
perched over plates
radiantly emptied;
intense second helpings
for the never-sated;
one too-sweet mouthful
of bleeding berry.
Cannibal, courtier, vegan --
staples of my guest list
on honest days.
I take my place
at the head of the table
suddenly aware
of how hungry I am.
Cheers, Kevin. I toast you with my modestly priced bottle of merlot from Trader Joe's.
Salute! Per cent'anni. Auguri!
Good thing I missed your birthday this year, you weren't in the best of b-moods. Dad was a Capricorn and a very cryptic one. I don't know if you can be my worst nightmare, doubt it. One thing I want to know: do you really *hate* this third person thing or do you simply feel uncomfortable about it, as your official resume claims?
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