A Forty-Fifth Trip Around The Sun!

Shit, man, 45.  I didn't think I'd make it.  Well, I'm not saying I thought I would die before reaching 45.  But as obsessed as I am with old age and death now, I was really cognizant of birthdays when I was a kid, and when I was a kid, 45 seemed so far away.  And now it's here.

But here's the thing: I still feel like a kid.  I probably feel that way because I still live in my childhood home and under my parents', uh, oversight.  And, you know ... this might sound weird, but maybe I want to still live like I am a kid because I still want to see myself as a kid.  Does that make sense?  I don't want to grow up.  It's scary as fuck growing up.

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I really, really wanted to stay up last night.  I gave myself the day off from work; there should be a law against working on your birthday.  But probably because I went to the library to print out some March Madness stuff and some tax forms, then treated myself to a massage from ******a (I saw her boobie), I had no evening nap, but fought through and finally succumbed to my fatigue around midnight.  I really wanted to last until 4 in the morning to watch World News Now.  And I can't do that now because I work tomorrow.

I am getting old.

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I also owed myself a birthday wank-off.  Thought I would do that late last night, if I stayed up.  But I woke up a bit past 7, like a 45-year-old, and I decided it was a quiet time to rub one out to the Hooters calendar for February.  And I stroked myself and stroked myself ... and then I pudded out so meekly all my cum landing on my finger.  I laid out my cum towel, and I don't think any of my semen hit it.

Maybe I need my body to wake up more.  Or, maybe I am getting old.