The anticipation is making me tingle.
It’s one of those weird, in-your-bones kind of tingles. Like the kind you might get right before a big test, especially if you’re doing some last-last-last minute cramming and suddenly someone tells you that it’s covering through chapter 28 and you’ve only tried to cram through chapter 24.
Or the tingle and pit in the stomach of a late Sunday night, when you realize that in nine hours you’ll be neck-deep into some sort of responsibility and no longer comfy and warm in your bed, and you don’t want to but you have to.
Or the pit in the stomach that you get when you hear the wheels in a rollercoaster come to a clicky and ominous stop, ever so slowly and calmly… right before you leave your stomach 500 feet above your head and you plunge eyes-first into the sick void below.
These are the last hours in my twenties, and little flickers of panic keep gripping me:
“Am I enjoying these moments enough?”
The delightful ghetto echoes of some large girl on Flavor of Love waft into my years. Apparently, some chick is a lover “and I love everybody.” Good for her. She should come and love my asshole neighbors, because I don’t.
Oh Jesus Christ on a pogo stick: why must Flavor Flav wear that ridiculous helmet?
We just watched The 40-Year Old Virgin again a bit ago. The one line that stuck with me?
“40 is the new 20, Andy!”
(Runner-up: “You know how I know that you’re gay?”)
With any luck, these days 30 is the new 10 and I can go off and have cotton candy and soar above the buildings and then viciously plummet toward them, only hindered by that temporary pit in the bottom of my stomach that tells me that I am now 30, and maybe the party can begin.