Wow. I am turning thirty. Thirty. It’s like a mix of party of five and thirty something. It’s like the teenage mutant ninja turtles are in the infirmary and there is not much time left. Only yesterday did I cut my Vanilla Ice haircut. I still have a tan line from my slap bracelet. I guess it’s time to stop wearing my Jams, and my overalls. Thirty, really? I guess it’s time to stop watching reruns of Garfield and friends. Time for me to cut my hair real short, wear a suit. Every day. Seinfeld is almost 20 years old. I find the sarcasm of Curb Your Enthusiasm like a drug. Larry Bird has gone to an old folks home. Am I really thirty?? Am I growing hair in my ears. No that can’t be. I can’t be thirty, I still have a patchy beard. I still rock chuck taylors like back in high school. Am I thirty really? I showed my distaste to my brother about being 30. He said “grow the fuck up”. Really? That is your advice, go into 30 gracefully? I’m kicking and screaming the whole way there. The paramedics are going to have to take me in a stretcher wearing a straight jacket. Thirty. I mean come on. I still have my hopes and dreams. I can’t be thirty, I can’t even grow a damn beard. Well I did graduate thats good, I can say that. It only took me a decade. Reserved for doctors and lawyers, and servers at Bertucci’s. I have outlived Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison, and Kurt Cobain. But the real thing is I talked to Hasi at the corner store, he is thirty and own three convenience stores. And he has a beard. I’m going to leave you with this thought. I just have to generate it. 30, may be just a number, but it’s like the gap between. being a 20 something, and being a 30 year old fuck up. I better own a car pretty soon. 30, seriously?