I’m 26. I’m about to turn 27. And I think I’m peaking. That’s right, my hair is starting to appear in my hand when I shampoo too aggressively, my belly is extending beyond my belt and then falling over it, I have to wake up at the same time in the middle of every morning to pee, I’d rather stay home and stare at my cat then stray too far and worry about how and when I’m going to get home, I drink too much, I’m in danger of losing my job, I blog sparingly, and I don’t shower on weekends, but I’m telling you, this is going to be a banner year for me.
I always, in all ways, was a late bloomer. I didn’t have my wet dream until I was in eighth grade when I willed it out of my willy before my fourteenth birthday. My voice didn’t change so much as grow more irritating. And I still sleep with a blanket. Wrapped around my neck. Never out of sniffing distance.
So, now that I’m in my late twenties, I think it’s only fitting that my time has finally come to start blooming. Like an onion. It’s time for me to stop wasting it. Which is what I intend to do, in this, my big year. You only get to peak for so long, and I will strike the hammer while I am so hot.
Have you ever Wikipedia’d someone just to see how old they were when they accomplished something? And then thought, phew, I have one more year. Or shit, I blew it. I do that all the time. Well, when I have a Wikipedia page (one can dream), you’re going to want to skim through Early Life, and take a look at Career, because that starts right here. That’s right; this begins my years active bitches.
I’m peaking. And if you don’t believe me, that’s why I write. And you wrong. Because I am. I can feel it in my fingers. I can sense it in my boners. They’re more erect. I can smell it in the air. Like a cat fart. Dammit Gavin, why do you have to be so crude? Because that’s who I am. I like dirty jokes. I like shit humor. I love to curse. And get ready for it motherfuckers, because I’m peaking.
I don’t mean to be cocky. I just want to call a spade the n-word. And this spade is peaking out, with his big Jewish beak out. I’m like K-2 on Special K after sniffing a gram of K, one fucked up mountain top. I’m like Vesuvius spitting ash on all you suckers. I am at the zenith of the ziggurat zip-lining into the zeitgeist to zizz all over your faces. Yeah, it’s like that.
I felt weird when I turned 26. I feel great to be turning 27. I think it’s a potent age. A substantial sum. It means I acquired some experience, some clout, but I’m still allowed to be sketchy from time to time. I never felt comfortable on the life cycle spectrum at 26, but now I know right where I am. I feel good with the little I’ve accomplished thus far, because now I’m genuinely excited to accomplish that much more. If I had already done it all, what would I have to look forward to?
There’s a lot of big things ahead. A lot of milestones, landmarks, and holy-shit-I-can’t-believe-I’m-actually-doing-this moments. There’s a lot I want to get done. A lot. And I know now that the only way to get it done is to do it. I gotta take things into my own hands and strangle them. I got to make sure I’m gonna get where I want to go. I got to write my own Wikipedia page. I gotta get mine.
Which is why it’s perfect I’m peaking at exactly the right time.
