… another year wiser, as the old saying probably goes if I could be bothered to find out (a) if it actually did and (b) if there even was such a saying, but frankly it seems like too much effort. And at my ripe old age, when death is an ever present companion and I’m as likely to suffer an aneurysm and keel over, dribbling as I am to successfull complete a senten…
Just kidding. I mean, if I really had one, do you think I’d try to type out all three dots for the ellipsis? OK, so I would. And I’m not actually one of those people with a terrible fear of age or ageing. I’m happy with its inevitability and since becoming an adult – or as close an approximation as I’ve managed to achieve – all that’s really changed is that I’ve steadily lowered my angst levels to the point that I now expect to hit forty like someone in a permanent brandy-induced haze. One day I’ll be found with my legs smouldering from a carelessly-dropped cigar and all I’ll do in response is mumble, “Hzzrrrmahhh mzzz rrarrhhh. Marvellous.” and sink slightly deeper into my chair.
I was going to wander into the story of my recent discovery of possibly the worst writing I’ve ever seen in professional fiction, so hideous that reading it isn’t so much unpleasant as like having St Martin’s Press directly pipe rancid piss into your eyes, but I’m old now and have to conserve my strength. And I’ve already used the phrase “rancid piss”, which was all I really hoped to achieve in the first place.
Happy birthday to me.
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I'm John, though much like Bruce Wayne I also have a shadowy alter-ego with a far more flamboyant career. While "Sean Cregan" may not have quite the same ring to it as "Batman", I'm less frequently attacked by angry dogs, so it all balances out. I write books for a living, take photos, and I'm a single dad with a little boy.
The Nameless Horror is a nickname I somehow acquired, and this is my tumblelog - a kind of endless brain orgasm whose glistening globules of pearlescent wisdom are too long for Twitter and too short or silly for anything official. I can be reached via email at namelesshorror [at] gmail.com.
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Happy birthday, John.
We don’t here from you for months and you get our hopes all up of your demise, and then you just come back to taunt us with your “birthday.”
That’s just mean, man, mean…
And Happy Birthday
As someone who actually is approaching 40 in a brandy-soaked haze, just let me say, “Crmmmmnn in smmmintin, frrrbnn sommmmnmnmnmn, nnn — nipples like hedgehogs — mmmmmnnmnin spfffffffffffffff, happy birthday.”
You can call yourself decrepit AFTER you’re 40. (Just look at Stuart, cruising nicely into that middle-aged brandy-swilling novelist phase of his career.)
Until then, get off my lawn!
Of course you don’t fret about getting old: you’re still sickeningly young.
Happy Birthday!
Happy Birthday John. And just think; by the time you hit forty, the rest of us will be staring myopically at 50, incontinence pants and failing… you know… thingy… Damn, it’s gone. Now where did I put my spectacles?
It’s not like you’re ordering kids off your lawn yet, are you?
Well, are you?
Happy birthday. You’re still older than me.
I don’t have a lawn any more. There’s a lawn for the ground floor flat and it’s a bunch of German students who live there so I suppose I could yell at them out of the window…
Happy Birthday -
As someone older, but not wiser – 40 is the new 10, so enjoy before your become a teenager – and to celebrate, why not sing-a-long to My Chemical Romance -
They’re gonna clean up your looks
With all the lies in the books
To make a citizen out of you
Because they sleep with a gun
And keep an eye on your son
So they can watch all the things you do
Because the drugs never work
They’re gonna give you a smirk
Cause they got methods
Of keeping you clean
They’re gonna rip off your heads
Your aspirations to shreds
Another cog in the murder machine
They said all teenagers scare the living shit out of me
They could care less as long as someone’ll bleed
So darken your clothes
Or strike a violent pose
Maybe they’ll leave you alone
But not me
The boys and girls in the clique
The awful names that they stick
You’re never gonna fit in much kid
But if you’re troubled and hurt
What you got under your shirt
Will make them pay for the things that they did
They said all teenagers scare the living shit out of me
They could care less as long as someone’ll bleed
So darken your clothes
Or strike a violent pose
Maybe they’ll leave you alone
But not me
Whoa yeah!
They said now teenagers scare the living shit out of me
They could care less as long as someone’ll bleed
So darken your clothes
Or strike a violent pose
Maybe they’ll leave you alone
But not me
All together now,
Teenagers scare the living shit out of me
They could care less as long as someone’ll bleed
So darken your clothes
Or strike a violent pose
Maybe they’ll leave you alone
But not me
Teenagers scare the living shit out of me
They could care less as long as someone’ll bleed
So darken your clothes
Or strike a violent pose
Maybe they’ll leave you alone
But not me
Best Wishes
Ali