Sullenly Thirty

I'm aware this is some days postmature, and banal like tinned spaghetti, but I needed it to sink in a little. More than most this is a milestone that begets regret, forcing a recollective wince even in the accomplished. There was, granted, a minuscule mercy of timing in that I had two solid days to mourn a decade wasted before I was compelled to mourn nearly six that were not. This collision afforded a welcome diminishing of self-pity, though my aspect was still that of a man who would punch a wedding cake at the slightest provocation. You may not be intimidated, exactly, but you'll likely keep your distance in the hope of preserving the catering.

The first movement was beige with discrete chunks, in line with what I had been consuming. The second was a vibrant red torrent, rather cinematic in its way. When I eventually followed up, the practitioner matter-of-factly extinguished the faint hope it was a symptom and sent me on my way with the instruction to drink less. I had fifteen minutes between trains and I found myself in line to purchase what I already knew to be a poor excuse for poutine. It tasted like a heart attack, albeit a delicious one, and I missed my connection. The paunch-possessing ghoul with lovely hair—about two weeks post cut—would have to wait a further twenty minutes.

Back at the office, my editor wasn't thrilled with my suggested titles for the pieces on insomnia and narcolepsy I had turned in ("Desperately Seeking Snoozin'" and "Suddenly Snoozin'", respectively), thinking they trivialised the conditions. He also proclaimed the reference points were too obscure, even though the former grossed over 27 million at the box office and the latter ran for a moderately successful four seasons. The fool.

Whatever peculiar forces have propelled me here, whatever valleys I have managed to traverse, I stand before you now, a greyer, fatter, sadder reflection. And I realise that joy is nowhere but inside a yellow box at the bottom of my refrigerator, and a nozzle lets it out.