I turn 35.
This is what gets me. It's all supposed to happen tomorrow. I get all the nice phone calls from mates, have a nice lunch, the extended family come over and eat lots of chips, the cake gets cut and wahey, lovely day (apparently).
But it's really today that shits me.
The dread of turning another year and fuck all to show for it. I should be getting all the nice calls now because right now it feels like midway through the third quarter and Carlton's up by 11 goals. Mates have left the ground to console themselves into the sagging breasts at the Cricketers' Arms but because I'm a mindless stoic I force myself to stick around to hear that horribly catchy song.
Let's look at my lot and line it up against Deborah Mailman's character from Secret Life Of Us and her happy life trifecta of good job, good house and good lovin' (which, I'm sure, was paraphrased from the thoughts of a dead Greek).
I regret to inform the other applicant was deemed more suited for the advertised position
Not even close. Well, wrong. VERY FRICKEN close. I shit you not but in the past six months since the knee reconstruction I have been "down to the last two" in not one, not two or even three interviews but EIGHT, YES EIGHT, THE LAST FUCKING EIGHT great full time jobs I've interviewed for. No really, down to the last fucking two applicants in all of them.
"Down to the last two" shit's wearing me down folks.
If it wasn't for the odd freelance writing gig popping outta nowhere I'd be insane and broke.
Our house in the middle of the street, yesterday.
You often read about people in their 30s living with their parents. I'm one of them. Great. No amount of Foxtel, cable internet or daily walks in one of Melbourne's leafier suburbs can make up the constant fear that lazy journalists are writing tired articles about you.
Yeah, right. As if.
So when I should be getting ready to hum You Say It's Your Birthday, It's My Birthday Too, Yeah for the next twenty four hours, I can only really hear one song....
Bup badup badup,And it's awful.
Bup badup badup badup badup badup,
Here come the navy blues,
The old dark navy blues.