Turning 30

Christy, The Reckless Writer is whining about turning 30 (That little *itch. Why does she have to go and remind everyone else that she is young?) I don't remember much about the year before I was 30. What I do remember about being 30 is being so depressed that I wanted to kill myself but I was too cowardly to do anything remotely harmful to my young and nubile body (okay so I was, and still am, flat-chested, but I am witty and charming and an incredibly good kisser *smirk*), so what I did was to sit in the front seat of the only-in-the-PI contraption called the jeepney everytime I go anywhere and anyone who has a decent drop of Filipino blood in his/her, um, circulatory system, knows just how dangerous and how foolhardy it is to ride in a moving vehicle in the hands of a Filipino driver (he has this amazing and absolute belief that he is invicible) while navigating a road system that is akin only to a moon's pock-laden face in pothole density.

She is right though. After 30, drinking may seemed like "a passe or a nostalgic sepia memory". It is passe. Now I drink for pleasure and health and to have fun watching the girlfriend get tipsy and amorous after a really tall glass of margarita. I don't know what the in thing is among the 30-something generation. And what generation am I anyway? I still don't get the gen-x thingie. I am soo baduy (I just did a google search for the word baduy and even the Omniscient Internet have no idea what it means!)

Aye, this is a pointless mid-audit period blogpost.