holy moly. where the hell are my thirties going? In 22 short days, I’ll be 33 years old. that’s only 6 short years from official middle age. how the fuck can that be? this past year has been unbelievably lightspeed fast. i feel like i must’ve missed half of it. i swear, i still don’t even feel mature enough to own anything of substance. the biggest purchase of my adult life so far was a couch, that I bought new for like $1000.

here’s a secret: most days, i don’t even know what i’m doing. i go to work and hope i don’t get called on for an answer. i wouldn’t even begin to know how to buy a car, since the only vehicles i’ve ever owned have been purchased from family. the notion of buying of a house sends a bolt of panic through my heart. our round-the-world trip plans are equal parts exciting and petrifying, and i wonder what the hell i’ve gotten myself into. i don’t want kids because i’m terrified of never getting my life (or body) back. then i worry that i’ll decide i want children only once it’s too late.

every day i envy people that seem to know what they want and where they’re going, and every evening i keep hoping to wake up with some magical sense of self assurance that i’m doing the right thing. i feel like everyone else has it and i don’t. and every birthday i wish for *this year* to be the year i finally figure it all out.

maybe 33 is the year.

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