Meticulous Accident

I’m allowing myself to luxuriate in my birthday this year. It marks, after all, another year further away from doe-eyed anxiety, and if that isn’t cause for popping a bottle of bubbly, I don’t know what is. 

I have more energy now than ever. I’m a better musician, a better songwriter. I’ve developed a love of talking on the phone. I’d even go so far as to say I’m the kinda guy you’d want to share a bathroom with. Strange, the passage of time. 

I’ve been described as an old soul, that a certain part of me’s made of tweed, and that I was born wearing a monocle. I’ve now taken enough laps around the sun to appreciate these are compliments.

I stayed out until 5am yesterday, bouncing around between honky-tonks, dive bars, jazz clubs and thrash metal shows, accepting celebratory shots (and pretending to shoot them) from friends exuberantly toasting my not being a total jackass. It felt good.

Back to reality tomorrow, with an all-day session booked and several projects I’ve fallen behind on demanding attention, but it was important shutting things down for 48 hours and celebrating this absurd life I’ve stumbled upon, entirely by meticulous accident.