Thirty-three years old. Isn't that how old Jesus was when he got pegged to a crucifix? Yeesh. Hopefully, I have at least a few more years in me. I want to lose some weight before my light is extinguished, so I leave a corpse at least half as beautiful as that water-into-wino.
I don't really feel any older, but I haven't felt all that young for some time. So, I guess it all evens out. Maybe my self-esteem will hold at this level and I'll think I'm a real spring chicken when I'm in my fifties.
Sis took me out for a birthday dinner. Classy lady, that one. One of us had to have been adopted. I have Dad's nose and belly; she has his smile and propensity for beer. All things being equal, I suppose.
It usually rains on my birthday—even snowed on my twelfth birthday—but it's been nothing but sunny today. It didn't rain last year either, though it was a grey day. Is the curse finally broken? Well, the day isn't over yet—I'm cynical, so sue me. If it turns out this nice next year, I'll take it as a sign that God isn't mourning my birth.