I'll cry if I want to.

27. Twenty-freakin-seven. You know, 26 was a stretch, but as you turn the final corner to 27 you can't help but feel it's all down-hill from here. You're not a witty twenty-something anymore, you're just washed up. An unaccomplished, "had the spark of greatness" failure. Or maybe... I set the bar too high for myself. Maybe not. Either way, right now all I feel that can save me down the stretch is a healthy dose of hemlock right after I squeeze the last bit of quirky talent from my addled brain into something truly worth seeing or reading. Feh. Happy birthday to me.

Justin | 12:33 AM