Another birthday survived

It's currently less than one minute since the end of my birthday. I survived again.

I now enter into my twenty-eighth year: the most dangerous of all.

I've not been a big fan of my birthday for some time. This is not related to a sense of getting older. I'm not absolutely sure, but I reckon it has something to do with birthdays just never being the same as they were in my salad days. Naturally, the fifth birthday is better than the fifteenth, which in turn beats the twenty-fifth.

I reckon that this is the worst of the birthdays: at 27, hangovers last, ribs break, responsibilities begin, babies invade, money starts to matter, music dies,  et cetera. At least, that's what I reckon.

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