Dear Readers,
As all of you know—either because you are a decent person with a kind heart who wrote the letters HBD on my Facebook wall a few short weeks ago or because you are a comparatively shitty person who is now reading these words and realizing that you don’t care about one of the most important people in your life, aka me, at all—I recently celebrated a birthday. That’s right ladies and gents I am now, officially, 31 years of age. At least that’s what my mom tells me. And while I cannot unequivocally prove how old I am since I have never seen my long-form birth certificate, what I can say as a youngish, white dude who may or may not have been born in Kenya is that birthdays still serve as sort of mile-makers in my life. Birthdays cause me to be very nostalgic.
As all of you know—either because you are a decent person with a kind heart who wrote the letters HBD on my Facebook wall a few short weeks ago or because you are a comparatively shitty person who is now reading these words and realizing that you don’t care about one of the most important people in your life, aka me, at all—I recently celebrated a birthday. That’s right ladies and gents I am now, officially, 31 years of age. At least that’s what my mom tells me. And while I cannot unequivocally prove how old I am since I have never seen my long-form birth certificate, what I can say as a youngish, white dude who may or may not have been born in Kenya is that birthdays still serve as sort of mile-makers in my life. Birthdays cause me to be very nostalgic.
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