A Slightly Rambling Tirade About Dreaming and Being 30

So, I guess I’m 30 now. That’s a thing that happens once in a person’s life. I suppose I don’t mind leaving my 20s behind, if it weren’t for the fact that I’m still cleaning up the mistakes that young jerk made. Messes are easy to make. It doesn’t take a whole lot of work to make a mess. In fact, that’s the easiest way to make a rightly good pile of crap, not working.

Now, though, comes that part of being an adult that everyone really dreads. The part where you have to somehow deal with all the crap you’ve been shoving into the closet or under the bed.

I hate this part.

So, I had some dreams. They were pretty egotistical dreams, too. Dreams about things like Global Domination and Impervious Robot Bodies.

Those dreams were pretty stupid.

Stupid dreams, though, are the best dreams.

What’s the point in dreaming if your dreams are going to be boring, studious things? I mean, who wants to dream about sitting at a desk and collating?

Not me.

Okay, so maybe I have, but it wasn’t some TPS reports I dreamed about. In my collating dreams, I was putting together dossiers or something along those lines. You know, like all the hip collators are doing.

I’m not going to give up on stupid dreams. If I tried, I’d just get another, newer batch of stupid dreams to replace them. I’d rather fantasize about telekinetic super battles than orange mangoes that sing raggae.

Look, I’m not sure where I’m going with this little rant, so I think I’ll cut it short.

I’m just saying that being 30 means something, I’m sure.
I just can’t, for the love of pants, figure out what exactly that is.

Maybe it means I should shake my walking stick at the neighbor kids.

I’ll figure it out eventually. 

Maybe by the time I’m 40.