Today is my thirtieth birthday, as you probably already know if you follow me on social media, we're friends in real life or spoke to me for any length of time in the last month. To mark this occasion, here's a short blog post, including a picture of my amazing cake. If you find this overly self-indulgent, don't worry, my new Walking Dead review is up today as well.
So, well done me. Three decades and still alive. After a Philosophy degree (yes, I have a Philosophy degree - ask about the meaning of life now!), so many novels I've lost count, some therapy, some houseshares, some drinks, a whole lot of fuckin' TV reviews, fifty-nine Hobson & Choi chapters, thirty H&C Podcasts, nineteenWriteBlogs and the realisation I enjoy numbering my projects far too much, here I am.
I'm pretty sure this is the most together I've been in my life since I hit self-awareness at around 16, which is terrifying and reassuring at the same time. The writing is finally coming together, after I stopped attempting literary fiction about the human condition and just embraced my love of blowing shit up and telling jokes about shit.
Happily, avoided too much moping about being old by realising that my younger self wasn't as good as the current one, so I'll accept the shortening of my life in order to not be such a pain. Which sounds like a dilemma from a science-fiction novel, now I think about it. "This injection will make you less of a dick, but also shave ten years off your life... will you accept it?"
Yeah. Alright then. Probably won't write that novel though, it sounds terrible.