Z Day Is A-comin'
I'm turning 28 in 28 days, which obviously means that if I can manage to get through today without getting some crazy zombie virus, by the time my birthday rolls around, Cillian Murphy will make out with me. This is the way the world works, n'est pas?
Every year around this time, I am filled with awe and wonder that time keeps passing and I keep getting older, but I never actually feel older on my birthday. It never ceases to amaze me that as each year passes, I get one year older. I just got used to being 27; where the hell did 28 come from? What's next, 29?
While I feel like the actual passage of time doesn't relate to my age, it's the little moments here and there that mark my age and the relative feeling of youth. Last night, I saw a commercial for some concert celebrating the 25 years of George Michaels' career.
25 years.
That means I was about two when he started performing, and I was about ten when people stopped caring about him, and about 18 when people started talking about him again in hushed tones. Now he's trying to getbaby boomers suckers (heh, no pun intended) to shell out a thousand bucks to watch him toddle around onstage. For some reason, my disdain for this concert instilled me with a youthful vigor.
Then this morning's Post carried a story on the front page about Keith Richards. I didn't bother reading the text, but judging by the accompanying photos, the story reports Keef's tragic battle after having been been stricken with the zombie virus but somehow bravely manages to keep on kicking. It made me happy for two reasons: again, seeing the decrepitude of a washed-out musician made me feel like I haven't even come close to hitting the prime of my life. And also, if Keef has the zombie virus, that's one less person I have to compete with to make out with Cillian Murphy. And oh, how I want his sex.
Every year around this time, I am filled with awe and wonder that time keeps passing and I keep getting older, but I never actually feel older on my birthday. It never ceases to amaze me that as each year passes, I get one year older. I just got used to being 27; where the hell did 28 come from? What's next, 29?
While I feel like the actual passage of time doesn't relate to my age, it's the little moments here and there that mark my age and the relative feeling of youth. Last night, I saw a commercial for some concert celebrating the 25 years of George Michaels' career.
25 years.
That means I was about two when he started performing, and I was about ten when people stopped caring about him, and about 18 when people started talking about him again in hushed tones. Now he's trying to get
Then this morning's Post carried a story on the front page about Keith Richards. I didn't bother reading the text, but judging by the accompanying photos, the story reports Keef's tragic battle after having been been stricken with the zombie virus but somehow bravely manages to keep on kicking. It made me happy for two reasons: again, seeing the decrepitude of a washed-out musician made me feel like I haven't even come close to hitting the prime of my life. And also, if Keef has the zombie virus, that's one less person I have to compete with to make out with Cillian Murphy. And oh, how I want his sex.
posted by The Goo at 9:36 AM
3 Comments:
I never realized you were so close in age to my husband- you're exactly 7 days younger than him.
Wait, we had a convo about this at Jack's party, remember? You and the Object had a moment about dealing with Tauruses! Maybe that info got lost in the Hey Ya kerfuffle...
Y'know, 28 isn't so bad, except every once in a while you remember how close it is to 30. I never thought that would bother me -- just another year, right? -- but for some reason it's starting to.
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