Next comes the stretchy wasteband

So I asked Joe if he was coming tonight. He said, "No. I have to play basket ball."
I said, "Really? Are you freaking kidding me? It's my birthday. You are a jerk."
Joe said, "Dude. Sorry. We have three hoops reserved. You can't even know how that is."

I then woke up sweaty, and mildly chuckling at that last line. I kept wondering why I was sweaty. I haven't worked up a good night sweat ever since I have no less than 3 fans blowing upon me. I then sat up and said out loud, "Oh. That's freaking why." My desk fan, the one that blows really really directly upon me was not spinning. I sat up, turned it on, and collapsed back down saying out loud, "Activate, blessed air. Cool me from my sweats." I then lay there, thinking about the ridiculous nature of speaking to one's self out loud, and just how often I do that, and how it occurs quite naturally, seeing as how I even do it unthinkingly at 5 am. Also, about how stupid a thing "Activate, blessed air. Cool me from my sweats," was to say.

Sometimes, hours later, I wake up and I'm 26.

No longer right in the middle. On the deadly descent into late twenties. Yeah, yeah, some of you are already long past that.

So what. This isn't your blog.

I guess I am a bit freaked out because, next comes the 27, which sounds horrifically old to me. Followed by the quick, screaming nose-dive into 30. Dear lord, spare me the long dreaded "alone at 30."

Dear Dave, are you going to call me a colicky baby?

Love, Fish