So what am I going to do now? I've made a post so I might as well make it creative. Writing something prosaic or even poetic keeps that nasty temptation of writing a 'This-is-my-life-and-OMG-can-you-believe-it' blog at bay.
How about this:
So what shall we do
Nope. Too greetings card-y. Besides, the 'true' poet in me died a little over three years ago. Well, not so much died as passed out drunk on its own convoluted hooch. Maybe I should try something like:
ERASMUS: Twenty-two years of age means nothing.
NEIL: Next to nothing.
ERASMUS: Excuse me?
NEIL: To say it's nothing outright is to deny the importance of tracking age altogether. So come off it.
ERASMUS: Tracking age? Is this a hunt now?
NEIL: Rather than saying we're growing old, why don't we just keep on saying we're growing up?
ERASMUS: Not in terms of height, I'm guessing.
NEIL: I'm serious. Ageing is climbing. Or descending, depending on your outlook.
ERASMUS: Not to mention your medication.
NEIL: Shut it.
Borderline waxing lyrical territory. Now really, who wants to see me waxing? Moving swiftly on:
22. Twenty two. Two and 2. A pair of swans in birthday hats. They're gobbling all the blueprints for the future. Oh no! Oh no! One Oh! One Zero. I've always felt ten. Perfect 10. Good for tensile strength. Strength in numbers.
Now that was forced. I'm far too good at playing with letters and numbers and obvious clichés so therefore I must stop. Henceforth and all that.
I'll just say this. I'm another year older. I thought a blog post would help me work it out, get over it, keep on running and perhaps it has. Writing it felt like an exercise in futility so maybe it won't when reading it. I'm awfully good at contradicting myself. Good enough anyway.
Yes. I'll just say that.