The last year of my life

OK, þe olde 35^th birthday is coming up. Now, I've always maintained that the average human male lifespan "in the wild" as it were is about thirty-five years and now my thrity-fifth year is drawing to a close. Statistically, everything after this is the result of civilisation and medicine. Just another useless factoid from the fountian of useless information? To you, maybe. To me, this means something. Adding even more weight to this milestone is another nagging factoid that I can't shake. In the Jewish tradition 70 years is a traditional "lifetime". Thus, by Jewish standards I will officially be middle aged come the end of the month.

I'm depressed and wholly unsatisfied with the way I am living my life right now. I'd dearly like to get royally hammered with my friends at this point, but that begs the question: what friends? Anyone still remember me? Does anybody really exist on the other side of this increacingly blurry (because the money I need for new glasses keeps disappearing) screen? I think I really, really fucked up here.

One thing I can tell you all for sure. Come the day of my statistical death I am going to go out and drink myself stupid. I have booked my birthday (Wednesday the 31^st), as well as Thursday the first, and Friday the second off. Wednesday night I plan to sit down in front of the television, eat cake, drink a huge glass of gin and tonic and sink in to funk so deeply blue as to verge on ultra-violet. With that out of the way I will spend Thursday day downtown at the art gallery with my small sketchbook trying to remember what the fuck I was thinking when I started down this path before going out to Luv-a-fair. Hopefully some of the semi-mythical people I once knew will be there and not think too badly of me for having fallen into this oubliette. I have no idea how I will get home or even if I will bother. That's what I have Friday off for. If I have to spend all night walking across the city and up the side of this mountain (*sigh* once upon a time I had money for taxis) then I have the time to do it.

Saturday the 27^th I will be missing my once-upon-a-time best friend's wedding because I can't get to Toronto for lack of funds. Last year at this time I was able to do it on a whim. I put money down on a tux at that point, so sure I was that there couldn't possibly be any problem getting out there by the following year. And that was at a point where I was between jobs. How the fuck is it that I now have the best, most rewarding job of my life and I can't even afford fundamentals like a new pair of glasses to replace the scratched and blurry ones on my face right now or a new pair of shoes. I've had to glue my old shoes back together. I'm holding my fucking life together with gum and baling wire. My "sanctuary", this room isn't organised even after six months here. My books, which are a touchstone, are in no sensible order - when I try to find something I end up searching around, often fruitlessly.

Blah, blah, fucking, blah. Who cares? What difference do the details make when nobody can do anything but me? This is my problem.

Fuck it. Fuck it all.