Now I am 34 years old, for whatever that’s worth. Probably not much!
I am also exhausted, so for now here’s a bunch of nice stuff my friends posted yesterday. Wow! I have such nice friends. And I have blurred their names since I have yanked these things out of the ether and put them someplace else . . . and though I highly doubt anyone would care, I’m gonna go ahead and grant them relative anonymity anyway. It’s the least I can do!
LATER: Jill came over and we got HOMEROOM and made a bed on the floor of my living room and watched POINT BLANK (1967) on my stupidly huge television. We drank bad wine and felt glad. It was cold in my apartment as I had intentionally not turned on the radiators, knowing that later it would make being in bed much better. And so when the movie ended, we moved everything back to my mattress and lay there in the dark cold of my bedroom, warm together beneath the comforter, and talking and holding each other until we fell asleep. I don’t know what more anyone could ask for, when you get down to it.
THIS WEEKEND: I reckon we’re all gonna meet up in Temescal and sit beneath some heat lamps and get drunk?? I mean, what else can you really do right now? . . . everything is closed or half-closed, and it’s too cold to hang out in a fucking park, or whatever. But such is the ultimate fate of all January babies. Though you know what: no matter what we do, it will be all right, because I just like having an excuse to see everyone in any capacity. Last year I spent my birthday by myself. The year before, I was deathly ill in Berlin and I woke up to the news that my grandfather had died on the other side of the world. Which is to say: the bar for a better birthday is so low that if you went any lower, you may as well be skydiving off a snake’s dick. (What?)