I’m old now.

I don’t want to hear from any 30-somethings or middle-agers or AARP representatives. I know old, and “late 20’s” is old. I can’t even say “mid-20’s” anymore with a straight face. Late. LATE !!!

What have I accomplished with all the time I’ve had?

Have I cured cancer? Ended suffering? Made sweet love down by the fire to Meredith Baxter?

No.

Have I written the Great American Novel? Have I conquered Canada? Am I an astronaut?

Again, NO !!!

I don’t own a cool robot minion, I never built that pedal-powered helicopter in my backyard, and I have yet to start a rock band.

I don’t think I have achieved a single one of the goals I set when I was 5. I guess I should just dig a hole, climb in, and pull the earth back in on me.

What hope do I have in the meager years left before me? Others are closer to curing cancer already, Meredeth Baxter is just getting older, NASA is constantly facing cutbacks, robot minions are tough to come by, my accursed voice turned out to be better suited for barbershop than grunge, and I seem to have a greater propensity for causing suffering than for ending it (sorry, L).

Must be about time to quit. I mean, LATE 20’s, man. Twenty Seven.

3³, for you math geeks.

Then again, the Canada thing is kinda stuck in my craw. I don’t think I can just give up hope of being King of the Great White North (or North California as I will be renaming it) when it has haunted my dreams for so long.

Fuck it. I’m heading north, and woe betide the Canuck who dares challenge my supremacy. They shall know my coming by the sultry sounds of “Happy Birthday to Me” hummed in a rich Baritone.

In closing, Happy Belated Birthday, Andy. You weird, tubby fucker.