Diary of an up and coming sociopath

Guess who’s now 25!

That’d be me. Is it time for an anniversary issue? (That’s just a little comics humour, there.)

Now, anyone who’s been 25 before will just have to humour my naivety when I say that this is the first time I’ve looked at my age and had reason to think “DAMN, I’m actually AGING.” Why do I still feel like I’m, say, 19? I remember when people who were 25 actually seemed *cool* - now I’m sitting at Reading festival going “Dear god, is that girl really only 16? I’m going to hell!” I’m not cool! Perhaps 25-year-olds were never cool! It’s all a huge conspiracy, or more likely, the whole thing’s a massive cock up. Cool? The only things getting cooler are my extremities as I lose all blood flow to them in my old age. I swear I can’t feel my toes. I’m sure I could when I was 24.

I understand that it’s not like there’s any urgency to being in your mid-20s (no more than usual…) and there’s most likely plenty of time left before the sweet release of death and all, and admittedly, it doesn’t feel any different to when I was 24-and-364-days, but I’m finding it worryingly inescapable that it’ll go 26, 27, 28, 29 and then I’m out of my 20s. There’s only four 20-numbers left until 30! I’m currently on my sixth one! Argh! Etc.

In line with this new age-related hysteria which I’ve never experienced before, I’m going to spend the rest of the year hiding under a pile of blankets until I’m 26, at which point I assume the problem will automatically resolve itself.