Might as well get this crap over. I turn into Half Century Man in about fifteen minutes. I have nothing really to say, other than the amount of people I know with September birthdays. Its just a day to me, most holidays are. If our civilization hasn't destroyed itself in the next hundred years, who is really going to find anything interesting at all about today other than it is 09/09/09 or 9/9/9 or I suppose g-g-g, like some guy choking on his own blood in some Chicago alley. Well, its picture time. Me in the bow tie, looking like Steve Allen, Mr. Hip in the House of Squares. Sitting with my chemically-made plastic dog, and there I am wondering when the fuck am I ever going to balance myself on my own goddamn legs. I even had to be dumped in Santa's lap. For those keeping track, I learned to walk when I was FOUR. I still walk off-balance, George Romero ghoul-like, because I can't focus out of my right eye. I'm called drunk or faggot on pretty much a daily basis, the latter from assholes in cars thinking since I'm walking they'll be long gone. Enjoy your futures working the stockroom at Home Depot, fuckheads. The stuff you won't find in photos. Fifty years old and still never had sex, because I can't. Not doing a lot of many things, because I simply do not know how I will feel day by day. Will I be able to type without chewing my shirt collar? Will I start talking to myself before noon? Fuck, I can go on and on. A half decade of dog-paddling in a world of water with the cruel trying their hardest to keep my mouth and nose underwater. I see through a mist of chlorine.
