autobiography Blog


Today I turn 32.  I am officially a thirtysomething.  40 is just around the corner, and with that comes early retirement spent entirely on my private yacht.  I only have eight more years to overcome my crippling seasickness.

How does one rightly celebrate the 32nd milestone?  I’m not going to try out for a pro basketball team.  Still too young to freak out and buy a sports car.  Too old for a bouncy castle (or am I?).

What I need is a goal; something to distinguish this year from all the other unimportant birthdays I’ll have.  What I want to have happen, when I’m 85 and looking back on my life, is to say to myself “I remember my 32nd year.  It was the year I _______________________________________.”  That yawning void should be filled with an achievement of exceeding awesomeness.

Drawing another year of Falling Rock is not enough.  Publishing my zombie book is not enough.  I want discovering-the-north-pole excellence.  I want cloning-dinosaurs ambition.  Maybe I should start taking steroids just in case I need the added muscle mass for whatever I’m going to do.

Stay tuned, dear readers.  This year is going to be Francis-Ford-Coppola’s-ego big.  It’s going to be series-finale-of-MASH big.  I literally and figuratively can’t wait for my 33rd year to begin.

Right…now.  Go!