Salutations, traveler of The Internets! Welcome to William's Bloody Hell, so named after our founder, Sir Bloody William.
He is seen in the likeness above in a rare, 19th century woodcut. This
image was rumoured to have been
commissioned after a bout of unpleasantness
in the White Chapel district of London. Do enjoy your stay and peruse our many, varied offerings, much of which cannot be found elsewhere!
:: Today's soundtrack: Fishbone "Another Generation" ::
Okay, we're going to get into a really weird and sort of personal area here, so consider this your fair warning as far as that goes...
As I'm about to post this, we're at the cusp of April 2008 and for me that means one big thing: Holy Hell, I'm about to turn THIRTY. Now, I'm not going to tell you when my birthday is exactly, but I will tell you that I'm an Aries and therefore I'm in the first half of April and not the last and great C'thulu I'm going to start hyperventilating it's coming up so damn fast.
When I first began on this here internety thing, I was in my mid twenties, which is cool-city. Yes, mid twenties is where you want to be, folks. Mid twenties says "I'm old enough to have been out of high school for a while and have lived in the 'real world' but I'm still young, sexy, and hip." Yeah, that's what it says, alright. Then you cross over into late twenties town and well, not as cool, but still okay. Late twenties says "late night drinking parties are behind me but only because I've already been there and done that and now I'm onto real intellectual pursuits and I've still got plenty of time to realistically make my first million."
Now, though, now the border into thirtiesville is right fucking there. Once you step into it, there's no going back. That's the end of cool twentysomething me and onto officially old thirtysomething me. "But William," I hear you think through the use of my incredible mind powers, "how can you possibly be thirty? You're the most immature person I know!" Thanks, random internet reader for that bit of encouragement. Don't let my lack of mental maturity fool you, gentle reader, I assure you, I am indeed around the corner from teh big three-oh.
Of course, the first big hint that thirty was on its way was the first time I got a good ol' look at the top of my head. I mean, how often to people look at the top of their own heads, right? So, I caught a glimpse at the head and noticed, wow, there sure isn't as much hair up there as I remembered. There hasn't been any "clear cutting" by any means, but definitely some "selective cutting" going on, if you catch my lumberjack metaphor. I knew my forehead was looking a bit on the high side, but I'm okay with that as I think that actually looks good on me, but no one can make a bald spot look attractive, and in another ten years that's probably what I'll have.
In addition to the hair quantity issues, there is another hair related issue. For the last few years, I had been sporting a beard. I had this little chin-strap-esque thing going on which I thought defined my jawline well, or whatever. Then, for one reason or another I shaved it off for a bit and decided I looked better with it, and went to regrow it, when I was taken aback by what I saw. This thing was coming in with patches of grey. I have the occasional stray grey hair on my head, yeah, but not like streaks or anything, so this was a surprise that it was as grey as it was. What the hell kind of freak hair growing is this? Did these face hairs all get together in a subdermal meeting and all decide that when they come back out they'll be grey because it'll be hilarious? Not even thirty and getting a massive grey hair attack is not fair, I tell you! I'm on the fast-track for a great big-old skunk stripe, I just know it.
I remember the sweet, young thing I used to be. "We need to haul this refrigerator up two flights of stairs, what do we do?" Then I'd be like "Let me take that!" and by golly I'd lift that sucker up two flights of damn stairs, mocking gravity and the weak the whole way. Yes, I could lift heavy things, mosh the pit, and take part in rowdy games of football without worrying about the after effects. I could get a sprain, shake it off and be fine in twenty-four hours. I could almost literally watch wounds heal themselves right before my very eyes! I was like fucking Wolverine, man. I should have fought crime. Now, it's all oooh, I'm going to feel this tomorrow! and boy, the ankle is acting up again and stuff. I'm like those old country guys who sit on their porches in their rocking chairs saying "the knee is swellin' up; goin' t'rain tomorrow!"
If I'm already feeling the effects of aging now, what the merry hell is going to happen when I actually do reach thirty? Is everything just going to suddenly hit the floor? Am I going to wake up that morning with a metabolism like gravy, joints riddled with arthritis and zero skin elasticity? How many of us men can actually pull off the "men are handsomer as they mature like Sean Connery" card? Can we "average" joes even play that card? Should I just resign myself to a life of man-spinsterhood now?
One of the advantages to the turn-of-thirty I suppose is that maybe I can look forward to getting a little more respect with work related stuff. It's not so bad at my actual place of work where they all know me and things, but when I have to go to out of town meetings and other related stuffs, well there were many who didn't like to take a twentysomething guy too seriously. I really do take my work very seriously, so this kind of thing ticks me off to no end. All of the other men at these meetings are all in their fifties and crap and pretty much think a fellow in his twenties could not possibly know anything. What they failed to realize is that I may be young, but I got started in the business at a very young age and did indeed have quite a few years experience under my belt, not that they even cared to ask. In fact, sometimes if I went to a new meeting with different people and they asked how old I was, I would add on a few years just to avoid them looking down at me for no good reason. With the turning of thirty, I think I'll finally be able to put that to rest and hopefully these other business jerks will actually judge me by my merits rather than my age.
To recap, turning thirty plus column: respect. Minus column: grey hair, no hair, ass sagging down to my calves, arthritis, throbbing pain for no reason, general aches and pains, no healing factor, jowls, memory loss, foot fattening and elbow stink. God, this is scary stuff.
William the Bloody (old timer)
