Farewell my Jesus year

In an hour I will be 34, and though it is past my bedtime I feel compelled to see this year to it's sleepy end. I feel a little eh about this birthday, it's not a milestone or a marker, it's simply a question of positioning. Am I in my late early thirties, or my early mid thirties and does it matter? As I going nowhere on the treadmill fast this afternoon I started to archive the year, and overall it's been a very good year, the poverty of my sex life aside (internets, I can count on my fingers and several toes the number of times I have hit the sheets, streets or beaches) This year might prove even better since thus far I haven't needed to visit the ER for stitches, then again a lot of damage can be done in hour.

What does it mean to be older than jesus anyway, house, spouse, louse? I don't have any of the answers I so craved at 23, I just keep bumbling along celebrating my small joys and occaisionally indulging in self-loathing. And then, still on the treadmill, I started to think of a man that I used to know, who was a lover and a mentor, and a gigantic influence in my life. I am not the same person I was at 28, a sort of subtle realization, but I felt glad. It's a shame we don't know each other anymore, I think he would be proud.