kellinator (
kellinator) wrote2003-10-22 07:01 pm
Slouching towards thirty
Today is my half-birthday.
I'm now closer to 26 than 25.
Yes, I logically and intellectually know that 26 is not old. Unfortunately, our neuroses rarely listen to logic and intellectualism.
I'm now closer to 26 than 25.
Yes, I logically and intellectually know that 26 is not old. Unfortunately, our neuroses rarely listen to logic and intellectualism.
On the upside...
Re: On the upside...
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YOU CALLIN' ME OLD? HUH?! HUH?!
;D
(26 in December.)
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I cried a lot on my 19th birthday. My mom made the doctor put me on Prozac after that.
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My.
God.
30's not so bad...
Re: 30's not so bad...
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I'm having a great 26. 25 sucked ass.
Anything screwy in your life should resolve in six months. There, now doesn't 26 sound lovelier? *grin*
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And while 25 has hardly been flawless, I have to say it's a huge improvement over 24, 23, and 22.
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*laugh*
And while 25 has hardly been flawless, I have to say it's a huge improvement over 24, 23, and 22.
My 25 sucked immensely. See here. (I added you to the filter for that post.)
22 sucked crusty rotting donkey ass, too. 23 and 24 weren't too shabby. And 26 -- much better, as a recent post indicated.
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Um. When you're sixty. Ish.
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WAIT A MINUTE ... that means your BIRTHDAY ... why, the NERVE!
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Re: getting old
When I was 25 was when I met
Re: getting old
BTW, thank you so much for your email... it really meant a lot. *hugs*
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And smack scarcrest (?) for that gif89, both on principle and sheer size. Urgh.
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And I take it it's the monkey icon you disapprove of?
Try turning 24 while dating a youngun'...
Re: Try turning 24 while dating a youngun'...
(added you so you can read the friends-only stuff)
Re: Try turning 24 while dating a youngun'...
Hey, thanks for adding me!
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I feared these present years,
The middle twenties,
When deftness disappears,
And each event is
Freighted with a source-encrusting doubt,
And turned to drought.
I thought: this pristine drive
Is sure to flag
At twenty-four or -five;
And now the slag
Of burnt-out childhood proves that I was right.
What caught alight
Quickly consumed in me,
As I foresaw.
Talent, felicity --
These things withdraw,
And are succeeded by a dingier crop
That comes to stop;
Or else, certainly gone,
Perhaps the rest,
Tarnishing, linger on
As second-best.
Fabric of fallen minarets is trash.
And in the ash
Of what has plesed and passed
Is now no more than struts and greed, a last
charred smile, a clawed
Crustacean hatred, blackened pride -- of such
I once made much.
And so, if I were sure
I have no chance
To catch again that pure
Unnoticed stance,
I would calcine the outworn properties,
Live on what is.
But it dies hard, that world;
Or, being dead,
Putrescently is pearled,
For I, misled,
Make on my mind the deepest wound of all:
Think to recall
At any moment, states
Long since dispersed;
That if chance dissipates
The best, the worst
May scatter equally upon a touch.
I kiss, I clutch,
Like a daft mother, putrid
Infancy,
That can and will forbid
All grist to me
Except devaluing dichotomies:
Nothing, and paradise.
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