Work and other interests have been eating my brain recently, leaving me with little in the way of time or energy to devote to random blog posts. Or any writing whatsoever, a fact that is causing a portion of my being to circle restlessly and make nervous little whining noises. 

I'll be back in the swing of things eventually. I've had a number of ideas surface briefly to be scribbled down on scrap paper and pocketed, but I'm lacking the time to sit down and flesh them out properly. 

Thirty is coming on fast. I know I'm supposed to be having some sort of mental breakdown or period of intense introspection or maybe just an hour or two of being depressed about how old I've become without noticing, but so far, no dice. When mention of my birthday does bubble up in the course of everyday conversation, people tend to study me with narrowed eyes, half-expecting me to start weeping copiously (and Pavlovianishly) at the very mention of the three decades lived. 

Of course, they don't know I've been claiming to be thirty ever since I turned twenty-eight. My reason for this is simple, if kind of strange; I really like multiples of three. I have a fondness for multiples of five as well, but they're nothing when compared to multiples of three. 

No, I don't understand it either. But I didn't want to be twenty-eight, which has nothing whatsoever to do with three or five, and I certainly didn't want to be twenty-nine, which SOUNDS like a multiple of three but is really just a tricksy bastard with no more to do with three than twenty-eight had. Thirty, though...well. Thirty is replete with threes and fives. There are ten threes! Ten of them! And six fives! Why on earth would anyone settle for something as unbalanced as twenty-eight or slippery as twenty-nine when you could have a lovely,  comfortable, solid thirty under your belt? 

I'd have claimed twenty-seven (three times three times three! Three threes!!!) except there is something inherently dishonest and bothersome about claiming an to have been an age that you've already been. Somehow, claiming to be older than I am seemed more honest. 

Again, no, I don't understand it either. My logic is my logic, no matter how illogical, question it at your own peril.

And while you're at it, get off my lawn. You damn kids and your frisbees.