Quarter-life crisis

Unless, through some miracle in science, I live to be over a hundred years old, I'm already well beyond the quarter-point in my life. That would mean I've lived long enough to earn my right to a twice-in-a-lifetime personal "crisis"... and you can believe I'm exercising that right. Lately, all I can think about is adventure. Yeah, the same word that gets a six-year-old into all kinds of mischievous trouble. I've come to a point where my life lacks that crucial bit of "something else" that keeps me interested in what's in store for me every day. I actually use the snooze button now. I wake up later. I shave less. I don't care that I'm forming a bit of a gut. Frankly, I don't quite give a shit.

The beauty of having these pivotal "crisis" moments in life is that they give you an excuse to do some incredibly stupid shit. Like getting tattoos, leaving your family to live with a bunch of animals on a farm, shaving your head, quitting your job, picking up smoking... all kinds of shit you never really had the balls to do before. For me, that's getting a motorcycle. Keep in mind that I'm a maniac on the roads as it is. I'm the idiot who has to be first when the light turns green on a freeway on-ramp. I'm the idiot who refuses to let people cut in front of me when I'm about to exit a freeway. I'm the idiot who'll honk and yell at any poor fool who happens to be going slower than me in the fast lane. And in a few months, I'll be the idiot who ends up on the side of the road with his lower torso a few hundred feet beyond that. And, you guessed it, I'm the idiot who doesn't care.

Even so much as a year ago, I had this fear of death... That self-preserving instinct was able to talk me out of stupid shit like riding motorcycles. Now? The pain of a crash would be a welcome reminder that I'm still alive. I must clarify that I'm most definitely not suicidal. I'm not ready to die, and I think too damn highly of myself to wish for it. No, certainly not suicidal. For lack of a better word, I'm bitter. I see too many people, who lack the slightest inkling of talent, in a better place in life than I am, only because they were in the right place at the right fucking time. Yeah, this is where I pout like a little kid and say it's not fucking fair. I've worked too fucking hard and struggled too goddamn much to still be dreaming about the red Dodge Viper I fell in love with as a kid. I've done too damn much to still be taking orders from a corporation that shows me absolutely no loyalty and favor in return. Yeah, I'm high on myself - but that doesn't make any of it untrue.

I'm tired of a lot of things. I'm tired of people so much as trying to start conversation with me. I'm tired of people trying to tell me how I should and shouldn't be. I'm tired of people brilliantly pointing out my obvious shortcomings. I guess I'm sick of people. Period. At the end of the day, I'd rather be alone with my music than out with my friends. Is that depressing? I suppose that means I'm depressed. For what it's worth, I need a change of pace. I need a new career, I need a new lifestyle, I need to get out of this filthy hovel they call Los Angeles. If only I had the means to get up and leave. At this point, I figure, hell... why not?

... 50's not far off. Maybe then.