Happy Birthday to blah

There is a certain satisfaction one gets from knowing his life is near rock bottom. It's a goal that can be reached with a little perseverance and simple lack of self respect. It's like winning a race by finishing dead last. You don't get a trophy, but you do get to keep the shoes.

I suppose it's normal to reflect over one's life when their birthday comes around. My own is breaching with the sun and it makes me wonder... It makes me wonder where the dancing days have gone and why I'm still no closer to the guy I always said I'd be, than I was when I was ten. I might as well still be eating bubblegum off the sidewalk and prattling on to anyone that listens "Jimmy Carter is the president and I'm going to be a marine biologist!"

I'm 31 years old and I live in the city of angles. I work 40 hours a week and make $35,000 a year, which means I can afford a can of soup every other day and, occasionally, pants. My net worth is approximate to whatever change is in my pockets and I'm pretty sure I've achieved legendary status at my bank for having the least amount of money in my account at any given time.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not lazy. I'm a very talented artist. I just have the worst agent in the history of the profession... me. Art for love of the game is great in theory, but it doesn't taste very good and, of course, can't buy you pants. James Whistler, the painter whose famous portrait of his mother always begs the question "Huh?" says it best as quoted "An artist's career always begins tomorrow." The problem with that being, as we're all aware, tomorrow never comes, it's always today.

In the end I suppose this birthday will slide by in succession like all others, in between tomorrow and yesterday.