So, September has turned into October. In approximately 13 days (on the 25th, if you must know) I turn 23. Anything past 21 and below 30 seems like a filler age, somehow - they promise to be blah years in between the legal drinking age and the first signs that you're finally over the hill. I suppose, in some other ways, they're supposed to be exciting times - times when I should (eventually) get a job, get married, be a productive member of society and possibly start rearing my own little brats who my younger counterparts will tsk tsk while I indulgently pat heads into the anaesthetized oblivion that is middle age.

Or not.

Either way, it promises to be a blah birthday; I've been holing up in my room, doing my homework, cutting down on the drugs, cutting down on the drinking, cutting down on the smoking (ok, maybe not the smoking) and choosing life in general, where we define life as productivity, self-reliance and a muted sense of accomplishment. It's pretty sweet I guess; every now and then I drink a beer, or maybe two, or maybe some wine or maybe smoke a bowl and think to myself, 'yeah, I still know how to party.'

The days are numbered though, I can feel the end of an era dawning on me. To all my friends who still get wasted a little too often, slack off, ignore their responsibilities and focus on having a good time, it's been an awesome ride, and I'm not off the bandwagon just yet. But my stop is coming, and soon I'll be socially sanctioned, chemically unaltered, clean-cut and clean-shaven. I can hardly wait.

Actually, I can wait just a little.