I woke up on Sunday morning with a sense of dread - I'm familiar with this feeling; I've had it every match day since Arsenal won the championship. I had it before then as well, but ever since it looked likely that Arsenal would go the season unbeaten, I started to think that the next match would inevitably have to be the one match where the amazing run our team has been on would come to an end.

As Sunday's match approached, though, the unbelievable half century beckoned, and our opponents were the team against which every team in English football has been measured since the disaster of 98-99. Hence the sense of dread. Like any good gooner, I couldn't stand the thought of our run being ended by that team from Manchester. It would have been as awful as if our run had been ended by Chelski, or the Tottenscum from down the road. I almost couldn't bear to watch the game.

In the aftermath of Sunday's game, Mssr. Wenger (as well as the outstanding folks at Arseweb and Arsenal World) have raged enough at Riley's circus-level refereeing. The point is, Manchester United has won this battle. As Rooney scored the goal that marked his 19th birthday, I slinked out of the pub with my heart somewhere around my stomach. I never liked Rooney - he's ended unbeaten runs for the gooners before. Now I really, really dislike him.

While we may have ended our unbeaten run on one of the sourest notes possible, however, let's not lose sight of the fact that we're still two points clear of the team that lost their sponsorship deal to us, and eight points clear of the team that beat us. Up to the loss, we'd been having our best start to the season in goodness knows how many years. Wednesday's match against Manchester City also clearly demonstrated the wealth of talent we have in our under-21 squad. If you look at things that way, it's still a wonderful time to be a gooner. If things go the way they have up till now, we're probably in line for one of the Arsenal's first back-to-back league titles since 1935. The way the team's been playing, it's hard to see anything but three points from Saturday's game when we entertain Southampton. I'm certainly looking forward to that match, and, for once, it will be nice to wake up on match day without that familiar sense of dread.

Starting is the hardest part of writing. Once you get past a couple sentences, you read what you've written and realize that you're going in a totally different direction than where you want to be. At these times, you recognize that most of the ideas you have are rubbish and start over. Either that, or you hit the publish button and forget about it.

I should have totally ended this entry with that paragraph. Before I do, though, here's a shameless plug for my 23rd birthday, which I really, really hope doesn't turn out to be blah, which I'm expecting it to. Everyone come to my imaginary birthday party, which I'm not organizing because I'm too lazy. At my fantasy imaginary party, there will be: a) lots of hot girls who are actually interested in listening to me ramble b) plenty of intoxicating substances c) nice presents of the 'shit I've wanted that for ages' variety, such as, I don't know, the latest arsenal jersey in my size, or a memory card for my dreamcast, or a tea pot, or something to hold large quantities of water (or tea) to put in my fridge, or a tape recorder for psych interviews ... the list goes on d) my friends, the msicreants that they are e) somewhere to dance f) actually that's about it. I'd ask for someone to hit on (or even better, someone to hit on me) but we have to content ourselves with what's possible. Ish.

Of course none of this is actually going to happen, but hey, as long as everyone I know sits back on my birthday and, for, like one second, thinks, 'man, I wish I was at Joel's imaginary 23rd birthday party. I bet it would be awesome,' that would be pretty cool. Imagine a cake while you're at it, too. Black Forest cake. With lots of cherries. Awesome.

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.