On Thursday I turn 34. A third of a century falls from me into the abyss. A week from today will commemorate my now ex-wife's announcement of her intention to leave me, an act which effectively ensured that my thirty-third year of life would be a rancid one. And it has.
Needless to say, I find myself quite pensive, quite sorrowful. A tossed-away lover, a spurned husband, a misfit toy banished to its island trashheap -- all these things I have been this year.
I drink too much, a habit formed as a result of the vile events of the past year; I pine too much, a habit formed as a result of a lifetime spent out-of-step, alienated, alone upon the treacherous cliffs of acute perception.
I no longer expect vindication or "closure"; sometimes wounds close poorly, sealing within themselves an abcess that throbs and aches forever.
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