what 60 means

Yesterday, my father was 60 for the first time in his life. 60!.

This is alarming. This is a harbinger of things to come in my own life. My father is no longer young, ergo I am no longer young. As he begins slipping into the most undesirable target demographic, I have to accept the responsibility of adulthood, something I should have done a few years ago. Got to go to work, got to get a job -- during the worst recession in decades.

God, I want to work. I want the structure, the responsibility, the frustration inherent to all cogs in late stage American capitalism. The silly little dreams of my late teens and early twenties, conjured while under grotesquely unrealistic illusions of my own abilities and self worth, no longer hold much interest. Who cares if I become what I want to become? I just wanna subsist, man. Preferably in my own apartment, for Christ's sake.

Ford Walker turns 25 today. I am eager to showcase my Dance Dance Revolution skills before a throng of swooning female fans at his party -- at Wunderland! It's no Ground Kontrol, but I don't have any money, so it's moot anyway.

God, I'm tired.