I’m forty-three years old.
At twenty-one I graduated college. I was the frat guy who did keg stands and tried to get girls drunk. Only the fat girls would come home and sleep with me. Classes were boring and I learned nothing, but they still gave me a degree in Marketing. It really had nothing to do with advertising. I want to make commercials with a talking frog.
At twenty-two I went to graduate school. It wasn’t as fun as college. My mom and dad didn’t pay this time around. I got a job to try to pay for it, working as a security guard. They paid me in cash every night, which paid for my nights off, when I would go to bars and try to find women to take home. I found a few girls that had no self-respect, but they were ugly. The cash went too fast and I quit my job.
At twenty-three I quit graduate school. I didn’t care that I didn’t have a job, because I was still able to go out on weekends and have fun. The girls didn’t care. They still didn’t have any self-respect. My credit card debt mounted, and I didn’t start paying off my student loans.
At twenty-four, I finally got a real job. Starting in March, I began doing construction for some buddy of mine. I had to pay back some of my loans, and the minimums on my credit cards. The job was grueling some days, especially during the bad weather, so I quit in November when it started getting really cold again.
At twenty-five, I actually dated a girl. She left me when she realized that I sat home everyday. I tried lying to her, but apparently that made things worse. I realized once and for all that I needed to get a job. Girls started giving me odd looks when I went out to college night at the bars.
At twenty-six, I was ready to declare bankruptcy, but then I had some good luck. I hit the jackpot, my grandmother died and left me half her house. Me and my brother sold her house. He took the money and finished paying off the mortgage to his house. I was able to pay off the rest of my loans and a few of my credit cards. I figured it would pay my rent for the next couple of years.
At twenty-seven, I ran out of inheritance money. I wanted to move back in with my brother, but he said his fiancée said, “No.” That made me angry. I’ve always been his older brother, but he had just been dating her for, like, three years. A friend took me in for a while, but said he was moving at the end of the year when his lease was up.
At twenty-eight, I finally did it. I got a job again. The honest truth is that it had been a while since I had sex. I also needed a place to sleep. My parents moved down to Florida in a retirement community, but they don’t keep in touch. In hindsight, I really think they just didn’t want me moving in with them.
At twenty-nine, I finally was allowed to work the lot by myself. Even though I was a Sales and Marketing major, they still made me go through three intensive months of training, where I had to go to work five days a week. When I was allowed to be on the lot alone, I only had to come to the dealership four days a week.
At the age of thirty, they said I was a natural car salesman. I think a lot of it had to do with my education. I was employee of the month in April of that year. I got a $100 bonus for it. Me and my construction buddies that I went to high school with went to the bars that night to celebrate. I was going to pay for the whole thing, but the bill came to almost $263.45. Since I was short on cash, I had to use my credit cards, but they were all maxed out.
At the age of thirty-one, my brother finally got married about a few months before both of my parents died. It was also the year that the Red Sox finally won the World Series.
At the age of thirty-two, I had started dating a lot again. I want to feel that it was because I finally paid off all my debt again. Thank goodness, it was a good year for automobile sales. It helped that my parents left me and my brother some money too.
At the age of thirty-three, I fell in love with this last girl I was dating. Her name was Natalie, and she was the general manager at the local Rita’s Italian Ice. At first, it was real nice when she would have the Winter off, but then I just began to get jealous. And anyway, I wasn’t going to marry someone who worked at an Italian ice stand.
At the age of thirty-four, I decided I had to start saving money if I were to ever move out of the basement apartment that I had called home for too long. I worked evenings and Saturdays and whenever I could. I didn’t really enjoy working at the lot anymore, but I needed to get a house or something.
At the age of thirty-five I worked.
At the age of thirty-six I attended my brother’s second marriage. He had cheated on his previous wife, she took his stocks and bonds, and he kept the house, the Mercedes, and the yacht. His new wife was the girl he cheated on with his old wife. One of the brides friends stayed in my hotel room that night.
At the age of thirty-seven, I had enough for a down payment on a house. It was a good year, especially because I became engaged to a beautiful blonde ten years younger than me. Her name was Eva and I met her in the grocery store of all places. I guess everyone has to eat.
At the age of thirty-eight, I mowed the lawn and I raked the leaves. In the summer I would sit on the porch. When Halloween costumes rang the bell and I’d deliver candy. On Thanksgiving, I finally had the family over. I was human again. Me and Eva even had a Christmas Tree up in the living room and I put lights on the house. It was the first year I didn’t hate the holidays.
At the age of thirty-nine, I finally married Eva. We actually eloped to Las Vegas. To be quite honest, I didn’t really know anyone who’d want to attend my wedding. It makes you wonder if anyone will attend my funeral.
At the age of forty, nothing happened.
At the age of forty-one, Eva died.
At the age of forty-two, I mourned, not for my wife, but for me. I never enjoyed true love. I don’t enjoy my job and I’m indebted to my bank for a mortgage to a house that sits like it’s from a painting and I’m binded by the artist’s brush. Forty-two years of wasted life, passions not pursued, opportunities missed.
Happy birthday to me, I’m forty-three. Happy birthday to me.
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