the age, not the story.
i turned 30 and i’m writing something to submit somewhere and it’s fiction and it’s long-ish, longer than the stories on this blog anyway and so i’m comitting to that and perhaps a pause in the stories for a moment…
i turned 30. on september 11. 10 years after far too many people died and i turned 20, i turned 30. 3 days after i turned 30 i got a new job. i real job. one i go to every single day of the regular work week. at that job i use my vast freelance experience, the skills acquired during my degree and my diploma, and my brain. it feels good to use my brain to create something that will hopefully insprire and challenge my colleagues in this province of beautiful and passionate artists. i like it.
and i got some money to hire friends who are smarter than me and better at this playwriting thing to tell me how to fix my play and then act in it and direct it so maybe i can sell it and then people will watch it. that would nice, wouldn’ tit. (say that fast, i like it).
but something feels off at 30. at 24 days into 30 i feel grown up (to an extent) but i feel like i am failing myself in some way. i do not care for myself the way i should. i eat poorly and too much, i don’t floss or stretch nearly as much as i should, i self medicate with advil and antacids, and i stop for a week and then start all over. and when confronted with that truth i hide. i’m 30 and i am afraid of myself (sometimes). just sometimes.
but i am making a promise. when there is a little cash in the bank changes will be made. i realise it costs zero dollars to make change (pun!) but the things i want to do cost money. and my poverty usually means that when i pay for something i tend to stick to it a little harder. it will be hard, harder than a new job and using my brain and writing plays. all of that is easier than making sure i care for me.
i so rarely get all sentimental and honest and shit but sometimes-at milestone times-at 30-what else is there to do?
