Hip Hip

As of ten twenty-fours ago, your humble narrator reached another notch on his trail — in particular, the one which allows near-guiltless debauchery at the wrong end of the Pacific. His current milestone, irrelevant though it is, grows more impressive by the hour. Physically, too, there's growth: his hair, rather like mine, has decorated itself with a few signifying wisps of white; his face, lacking last year's heavy bristles, has a certain frog about it; and his fingers, here entwined with my own, have lost a good deal of vitality. Suddenly, the excuses require even more invention.

The celebration (suppressed, of course) reminds me of my own, also around this time — give or take ten. Soon this leads me backwards towards what was nearly a year ago. Built too close to the fault-line, memories come flooding back: three parts syrup, two drops wit. Sun! Road! Rain! Temporarily shelved unease! Thank God That's Over With! Cruel me knows it's not even destined to be a footnote. In this respect, him and I are also twinney. Sometimes we even discuss it as if it were the same thing, and in kinder times we might say it's worth its weight in while. As for the rest, it's I Did What When? and assorted distaste, occasionally elevating to true, responsible so-rrow and accountability, fake or otherwise. So what's to celebrate?

As of some minutes ago, the above two narrators were fairly adamant about a lack of candles and hoo-hah, fairly adamant about the humble route.