Last night one of the truck drivers that comes into the place I work brought a turtle, he wanted us to baby-sit it. We tried to come up with a name, but all we could think of were names of renaissance artists, weird. So we didn’t name it after all. We just went back to Rambo 32, or Rocky 15 or whatever mega sequel action movie we were watching that night. Speaking of Rocky. I, no joke totally serious, love those movies. I always feel so triumphant when the last frame freezes on Rock’s contorted “YO ADRIAN!” face after he has beaten up the latest bad guy boxer and proven to Mickey and himself that he isn’t, in fact, a “bum.” Also I can’t help but feel some sort of sick satisfaction when 65-year-old Rambo mows down whole fields full of Burmese bad guys with a machine gun. Good for you Sly, you’re back.
My family is leaving today for Mississippi. I hate money, and responsibility. I don’t care how whiny and selfish that sounds. I know I don’t have it very hard, but me complaining about it doesn’t make it any worse for people that do, so I’m going to complain. I could be spending a week on the beach in Florida instead of allnighteverynight in the oil stained desert. Whatever, I’m over it. It’s just going to be my dad and me here at the house for a month, which means not a lot of conversation. As much as my mother drives me insane with her Celine Dion, and JLo Movies, she is always down for a good chat, which is nice.
So I’m going to be 20 tomorrow, which is weird. When I was a kid 20 was always the age where I started referring to people as “old.” This is most definitely well worn topic territory, but I certainly don’t feel old. In fact I don’t really know if I’ve changed much since I thought people who were 20 were old.