Hey, Ho, Let's Go!

I've officially made it into my thirties. I guess I'm using the term "made" in the same way a first time parachuter with a terrible fear of heights would say he "made" the jump from an airplane - sure he "made" the jump, but after a size thirteen boot kicked his screechy little ass out the plane screaming all the way down even after the parachute opened up, briefly jerking his body from 9.8 m/s squared acceleration to a soft as a feather fall onto terra firma. To belabour the imagery, yeah, the size thirteen boot would be that of ol' father time. Like the parachuter, I didn't have much say once I was out of the airplane, so to speak. OK, OK, fine, horse dead, stop kicking it.

Hmmmm, any changes? Well, I get full after just two pints of mass-produced "microbrewery" marzen when just five years ago I would've been chugging enough Guiness to make an army of dwarves (I don't mean the little people you un-p.c. insensitive bastards, I mean the bad ass living under mountains forging the Hammer of Big Death and whatnot mythical folk) say, "No, really, one more sip and I'll just fucking boot." My short term memory is, um, hmmmm, you know, I like vanilla a lot. What? Oh yeah, my short term memory is getting worse. I'm getting a big ol' buddha belly. I'm older than almost all the main character of the lager novels I used to identify with (yeah, I see the dangling participle, screw it, I've earned the right to use grammatical errors for effect, sonny).

I guess one thing hasn't changed, and that's I'm a right snarky bastard still.