When it comes right down to a list of people that make the world infinitely more acceptable than it would otherwise be in their absence, I’m pretty damned sure that my name is somewhere near the top. On August 3rd, 1988 little adorable me was born. I don’t profess that I’ve always known what I was doing—indeed, I hardly ever know what I’m doing—but I’ve certainly tried my best at it anyways.
I wish I had more of a speech planned, more of an epic post that ponders the meaning of life and my progressive advancement through it. With twenty five years of existence to my name, I’ve assembled a trove of borderline narcissistic views on the world tempered to perfection by my idiosyncratic sarcasm. I would dispense with my bounty of sage wisdom but it really boils down to this:
Do more of what you love and survive everything else as best as you can.
Too few of us are lucky (or rich) enough to merge what we love with what we do. Some of us love photography and flip burger patties for a living. Some of us love writing and work retail. Whatever it is that you love to do in the world, be it writing or reading or photographing or running or jumping, do more of it. As far as advice goes, it sounds simple enough but the reality is that it’s really freaking hard. If you manage to do that, if you turn down the volume of the white noise despite being unable to tune it out completely—the world becomes amazingly more bearable.
I think 25 years on this Earth has, at the very least, managed to impart that lesson. What 25 years hasn’t imparted upon me is a mature visage—some lady straight up told me that I look like a teenager the other day; which is a weird problem to have and therefore, as is right and rational with all weird problems, it must be mine.
Since I’m not above saying to myself: happy birthday to me! Though, the real gift has been to mankind for these past 25 years. What would you all have done with me?
And the obvious answer there is nothing.