Nineteen Suns Before Earth Hands Him to 30

— You are not doing enough.
— Nonsense, mofo.
— No, you are feeling the appropriate sensations.
— Of age?
— More than that, padre, but that’s part of the package.
— Yes, the twenties are a waning sun soon to depart into the ocean.
— It gets better. And so do your metaphors.
— Easier?
— No, but better. You’re going to be laughing your ass off pretty soon over this internal monologue. A few years from now. Just as your friends have been saying. Your petty musings on owning property or having a better day job. Who the hell do you think you are? You’re doing a damn good job, kiddo. You know yourself now better than most your age.
— I got carded for beer the other night.
— Only because you shaved.
— Yeah, good point.
— Now if you can just get through the next few weeks, it will be as if nothing happened.
— Just another day?
— Yeah. And what they don’t tell you is that because you make decisions on a daily basis to get to the exact place you want to be, you’re one sexy motherfucker. Robert Mitchum badass, sexy.
— These are good things.
— Yes, I’ve been trying to tell you. But you keep moping on about thumbing a lift to Minneapolis in the middle of the workweek or doing something rash. I’m not suggesting you settle down, but if you keep it up, kid, it will work out.
— But thirty? I should be someplace better.
— Listen, you ambitious sod, the economy sucks, but you’re setting things up anyway. Just deal with it.
— Okay. But can we chat when something else comes up?
— Here he goes again. Okay, but no more after the day of transmutation.
— Deal.

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