TwentyFive

4:14am and awake. It’s crazy that just now I realized that I turned 25. I mean it’s not like I didn’t know that I my birthday was coming up; I mean it comes at the same time every year. However today was different as in I didn’t really feel the excitement most people felt during this time. I work in nightlife, so every day there is someone partying away their birthday for days, even weeks on out. (Side note: I even know one shorty who planned herself a fake bachelorette party so she could get free drinks for her 20th — genius.) Me, though, I wasn’t feeling even the slightest bit hype.

Seriously, what the fuck?! Where was my desire to turn up and be pampered like Akeem in Zamunda, with rose petals and bitc — es? Instead I’m up, not mad, or feeling sorry for myself, just reflexing. Reflexing on the fact that I can about-face and see very few accomplishments. I mean sure, I graduated, and as a Black man who was formally a candidate for an all-expense paid trip with hotel and 3 meals a day included, graciously paid for by the state, (/sarcasm) that is definitely an accomplishment. But I’m a firm believer in not rewarding people for doing what the fuck they’re supposed to do. What else had I done? Damn sure nothing I said I was going to.

Again, this isn’t a pity party. I don’t do pity parties. Unless there’s Jameson involved. And the pity is actually strippers — I’m getting off topic here. Its reflection. I’m not interested in being a statistic. I’m not interested in being mediocre. I’m not even interested in being great. I’m just want to matter. I want to do things that people would say, damn, he did that. Yanno?