It was one of those heavy days. Those fucked up days that seem to crush your soul. It felt like it was never gonna end. I woke up and immediately sensed the dreadful energy of past hangovers. I´m thirtyfuckingtwo years now. Fuck. And all alone. Like a fucking old, weary, forgotten toy. Like Woody, except that my woody doesn´t stand up anymore the way it used to. Aw, fuck.
I had heard the stories. Of how your body wasn´t the same after thirty. I´d heard them allright. Except I never believed it. They talked about the twenty years crisis, and it never hit me. I went to the toilet right away. I had to get rid of the evil alcohols, those that don´t want to stay inside your body, well fuck them. Out they went and down the toilet they were flushed away. There was no food in my vomit, just a semi-transparent, yellowish liquid. And my nose sore like a motherfucker.
It was my best birthday party so far. A party of loneliness. A party of no judgments other than those of my three loves: tequila, beer, and some whiskey to keep me going through the three thirty am frontier. I had to experience the sun coming out one more time.
Because the sun is Idon´tknowhowmany millions of years old and still gets up full force every morning. I take my hat off and drink in its honor.
Cheers. And goodbye.