I'm 34 years old now. The day breezed past without much notice. I didn't do much work, which is birthday-excusable, but I also don't do much other days. My time in Kennett should be truncated shortly. I need to be careful how long I remain, or I will become carpet or wallpaper, which is hard to remove.
Eventually, I made my way to her house. By then I forgot it was my birthday, but she cooked me spaghetti, and I kept my hands to myself. I drank some old whiskey I found, and she had some rum. I'm still technically married, though I watched it fall apart, and she kicked her guy out last week.
I pulled her close and put my chin on her head. I put on my sweatshirt and left.
The temperature was mild, and my van was well parked, and I had Mike on the line for an hour. I went to sleep watching the funniest show ever. It's called Ice Road Truckers, and it is performance art. Like I said earlier tonight, if a guy stands on one leg for long enough, at a certain point it is art, and this show is art in that sense.
I breathe in, forget, and hold it. I notice, exhale, and shake my head. There might have been the start of a laugh. I hope so. After all, I am alive.