Twenty freakin seven!!!! On the eve of my twenty seventh birthday, embarking the twenty eighth year of my existence as this person that I have got to know a little bit, but continues to surprise me… I am sitting all alone watching television.
Have I suddenly become old?
In the memories of all the very drunken birthday eve’s and birthdays I have had, I am wondering is 27 really old?
I don’t feel 27. I don’t look 27. But the world is determined to make me feel 27 though. I’m not married, I am at the bottom of the pyramid at a career which I’m not sure I want to be in. I recall a conversation with my mother a few days ago, when she asked me, "where is your life going? You’re 27, do you have a clue of what you want to do?”
I stared at her blankly and answered, “NO, I don’t have one bit of a fucking clue.”
Is it that bad not to have a clue?
Baz Lurhman said, “Don’t feel guilty if you don’t know what you want to do with your life, the most interesting people I know didn’t know at 22 what they wanted to do with their lives, some of the most interesting 40 year olds I know still don’t.
Today, I am sitting here all alone, reading the Memory of my melancholy whores by Gabriel Garcia Marquez, watching Slumdog sweep the Oscars (don’t think it deserves the best film though) and thanks to the writers block long gone, writing furiously.
I hope on my 54th birthday (if I live that long). I know what I am doing, what I want to do. I hope as I look back today and wonder; I also look back and wonder at 54 how the hell did I fit all that in one bloody life?!!!!!