It's the Final Countdown...for me, at least.

I'm dying. Wow, I feel very "Raymond Chandler chainsmoking Pall Malls at a speakeasy while a platinum blonde winks at me from the corner stool" typing those two words. But it's true. I will be dead.

Unfortunately, the gusto is taken away from that statement when I tell you how much time I've got on this dingy rock. I've got approximately 10 years and 11.9 months before I shuffle off this mortal coil.

Allow me to explain...

Today is my 23rd birthday. I ask that no one mention this if you do comment on this post. I didn't always hate birthdays, but like most "special days" (Holidays, vacations, snow days) I've come to hate it over the years as it has yielded nothing but bitter fruit. I mean, there are exceptions -- there always are -- but by and large my birthday tends to be a giant disappointment. This one looks to blend in with the rest of its ilk, forgotten and passed over like so much Fredo Corleone.

But why would an insignificant day that I hate spell doom for me? Why are the shadows that the birthday candles cast actually funeral shrouds? This story begins about 8 years ago, on an innocent phone conversation. We were talking vaguely about the future, college, where people are going to end up: who's gonna sell out and become neutered domestics, who's gonna die of a drug overdose, who's gonna get pregnant, and who's disappear forever from our little social circle, etc.

And then the topic swung around to me. A charming little fact about all of my friends is that they all believe in me. I think it's because they're drunk and/or high most of the time, so to them anything's possible -- I'll be successful, The Hamburglar will be brought to justice, Jake Gyllenhaal wil come out of the closet; it's all within reach of actuality. Unfortunately for them, I wander this earth like a man cursed by karmic justice from a previous life I don't even remember (and if I'm this cursed, don't I deserve to remember the fun my Evil Self had? Don't I?). This dark view of myself and my life keep me rather grounded and pragmatic, with only occasional dips in the pools of cynicism. So that being the general state of my mind, my friend tells me all about how I'll be really successful and rich, and finally happy. I countered by saying that I'll probably be dead by age 33. Now I should point out that I just randomly picked that age: I really didn't know that was the death age of Christ or John Belushi, and it was before Chris Farley died. So by random osmosis I chose this age that meant doom for 3 of my ideological idols. I always assumed it was because the only number I knew (and pretty much still know) in sports was Larry Bird's. I mean, I knew Cam Neely was 08, but that would've have been impossible at that point. Unless I died in some bizarre time traveling incident, but let's not go off on a tangent. So back to the sitination at hand, I proclaimed my death to happen when I was 33.

Why? Do I have a Death Wish? Yes, slightly, but no more than your average, bored honky that tends to be somewhat morbid and depressed. If anything it's because I didn't want to get any older, I didn't want to settle into life. "Live fast, die young, and leave a good looking corpse." Well, I wanted to achieve one of those things: it's hard for an asthmatic nerd to live fast. And I can only leave the mortician with what I've got; can't blame the sculpter for being given bad clay. But I wanted to die young. I knew the respectable, suit and tie in a cubicle life wasn't for me. I just don't have the stamina for such a life, not nearly responsible or intelligent enough for it. Plus, if I ever had to go a place where people stockpiled "Kathy" or "Ziggy" cartoons, or Troll Dolls, or clever little mousepads....well, let's just say a lot of other people would be dying young.

I don't think getting older is a big deal if you're the type of person who is generally happy, or at the very least getting laid on a regular basis. But, for the most part, I'm a rather solitary fellow. Latchkey kid whose older sisters were too old and girlie to hang out with their nerdy younger brother, who also never really got a group of friends in high school until it was time to leave (due to moving or graduation), mine has been usually a lonely life. And I gotta say, after spending 23 years with myself, there's no way I can spend 23 more years with just me. It ain't gonna happen. I hate me. I try and avoid myself all the time, like an annoying cousin that I have to entertain. It's horrible. I turn around, BAM!, there I am.

Also, there should be incentives to getting older. Of course, some people will say that you gain wisdom, experiences, you learn how to do things better and to see the world more clearly. That's all nice in theory, but it's like when parents tell you that your Christmas present is "unconditional love": sure, it's a nice thing, but you can't tie a bow around it or show it off until you break it. As you grow older, there are special birthdays -- 13th, when you first become a teenager (or in some religions, a man); 16th, when you are on the road to getting your license and tasting freedom; 18th, when you can vote, smoke, look at some porn, and (probably) graduate from high school; 21st, when you can pass out in the comfort of a public restroom, and urinate on the tires of cop car. and then after that...it starts to get kind of lame.

At age 25 you're allowed to rent a car.

At 30, um...it's a milestone. Nothing changes, it's just seen as being older. Same with 40. At 45 you start to qualify for AARP benefits. 50's one of those amazing milestone birthdays that people marvel at. And it's at those later years that we realize that all birthdays are just a celebration of cheating death.

"Happy Birthday, Joey; once again, you were able to elude a vicious Bear Mauling for an entire year! Congrats!"

But like I said, there should be incentives. At random ages. So people look forward to getting older. Just like with drinking and driving and porn, there should be something allowed to people as they age. For example, at age 37, you are allowed to tell people their kid is ugly. It's understood and accepted. Let a 28 year old try to get away with it, and they are bastards. But if you do it, it's OK. Or, at age 44, a person is given a federally funded gorilla, lion, shark, falcon, or bear (depending on their geographical location). How great would that be?

"Happy 43rd, Bob! Just one more year till you get the lethal animal companion of your choice!"
"Do you think I've forgotten? Oh my god I can't wait for my Lion. I'm going to name him Lioncles the Mighty. He's totally going to eat my neighbor's dogs. But that's okay, cuz that douchebag told me my kid was ugly."

That's something to live for. Plus, such an abundance of deadly animals would also greatly increase how impressed people would be on your birthday. "With all of these Gorillas and Sharks around, Nancy, we're really impressed you made it to 58. Here's your brick of hash!"

I'm just saying, let's put some more expectation and excitement back into life. Let's stop seeing birthdays as relative to our deaths, let's stop ticking down the moments to when we're going to die, and start anticipating when we're going to get a laser cannon, or an army of zombies. Wonder is in such depressing shortage in this world that sometimes we have to manufacture our own. As much as I'm all about the whole "recognize the beauty and amazement around us", sometimes we need to inject some absurdity and craziness into our lives. And maybe that's what I'll do with my remaining 4,007 days try and restore some of that wonder back into our lives. Or at least bitch about it enough until someone else does.

So please people, no mention of my birthday -- unless it is accompanied by nude photographs.