This past April I turned 30 and, you know what, turning 30 is pretty weird. It definitely sneaks up on you. I don’t feel any differently, at least not mentally and emotionally, than when I was 25, which may be another issue altogether. But there are things now that I simply cannot begin to understand. My inability to comprehend isn’t due to any lack of faculties. No, it’s because I’m just kinda old now. I’m convinced that there are some things culturally that become impossible for you to understand after you've turned 30. Some of these things are, but not limited to:

WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS SHIT? It sounds and feels like screaming.

Young People
Until you have one of you own, you begin to see children in a very objective and clear light as you age. Let's get one thing straight, young children are terrifying. They are needy and they mask their flaws with unconditional love and adorable behavior. And teenagers? The worst. It’s crazy. Before? They never bothered me. Now? Shut the fuck up, man. I’m just trying to stare at this pretty lawyer on the subway without you ruining my entire goddamn life by playing your stupid, dumbass music on your cellphone’s speaker.

Lil B
Huh? I mean, I can kind of pretend to get it, but, truthfully, I have no fucking idea what is going on. Just be yourself and be positive, maybe? Or maybe you’re not supposed to "get" anything. Is Lil’ B the dadaist of hip-hop? Does he eschew time structure, rhyming patterns or making sense in general, on purpose? It’s more than a freestyle gone wrong, right? Like the dadaists, he embraces chaos, irrationality and sees his music as an assault on reason and aesthetics? All those stupid “I’m Miley Cyrus”, “I’m Bill Clinton” songs, those are like Lil’ B’s readymades right? Celebrities and pop culture are his found objects? Wonton Soup isn’t that different than when Duchamp wrote "R. Mutt" on a urinal and titled it "Fountain," right? I’m the "lame old guy" overthinking this aren’t I?

I went to a gallery opening the other week and seriously, when did these things get so dark and loud? I kept stepping on people’s feet and I couldn’t hear the pretty bartender with fucked up front teeth to pay my tab. Sidenote—when did girls stop wearing pants?

Working Out
I have to now. No, not because it’s fun and cathartic. Not because society says I’m supposed to, but because if I don’t I’ll fucking die. Seriously, I'm at that age where I have to "take care of myself." I don’t order Greek yogurt, granola, berries and honey to impress the waitresses at The Smile. I do it because all of a sudden my gastrointestinal track’s health has somehow, out of nowhere, become important to me.

I can barely do it anymore. Scratch that, I can kinda drink. And the ironic thing is, as I get older I have more reasons than ever to drink. It’s just that now the drinking hurts. I may or may not have gone out with a certain Four Pins Editor-in-Chief, who shall remain nameless, the night before a few meetings. We had a great time. When I showed up at the next morning's first meeting, I expected my drinking buddy to be feeling the effects, like me. Nope, that motherfucker was basically doing cartwheels, charming everyone in the room with a smile. Me? I FELT LIKE SOMEONE SHIT INSIDE ME AND DUBSTEP WAS PLAYING IN MY BRAIN ON REPEAT.

My Back
This fucker hurts sometimes for no apparent reason like a true dickhead. I tried skateboarding a few weeks ago. One, that shit is hard. Two, I fell once and my day was a wrap. I could barely push my old ass home. It takes, at minimum, like, two weeks for something to stop hurting now. I swear I used to have Wolverine’s mutant healing power. Now, I’m like Mr. Glass.

Getting older isn’t all bad though. I've stopped caring what other people think. I know, I know, all you kids say you give "zero fucks," but c’mon, you aren’t fooling anyone with that bullshit. And you know what, I’m fully embracing my ever emerging old man style, too. I wear robes out as jackets because I can. Birkenstocks? Absolutely. My arches need that support, girl. I don’t care if my shoes make your vagina hate me.

All in all, my expectations for life aren’t lower, they’re just different I guess. Back in the day my dream girl spoke seven languages, studied at Oxford, painted in her spare time and had really nice boobs. Now? I just want a nice girl that is patient enough to put up with all the stupid shit I’ll inevitably put her through along the way. But really, are nice boobs too much to ask for?

Image courtesy of Llerrah

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