My fortieth birthday is in three weeks. Officially that is when I turn forty years of age. I say “officially” because I pretty much am forty already.
Look at it this way: I’m 39 years and 343 days old today. Close enough.
I’ve made peace with it. I made peace with it long ago. Way back when I was twenty-seven, I was mortified at the idea that I would eventually be thirty. I’ve been staring down the barrel of forty ever since and it really doesn’t matter.
How little changed in those years. About me, that is. Not enough to suit me.
Right now, the zip is not on my fastball. Everything is hell. You are hell. I am hell. Nothing matters and the center will not hold. Good. I was always on the fringe. The bastards should drown like I will.