I spend the last evening of my twenties in perhaps the most perfect way possible: flipping back and forth between [Newly-Bought Book 1] and [Newly-Bought Book 2], inhaling great quantities of [Type of Wine] and listening to the horrifying slow electronic creep of [Musician] at his most ambient, rather loudly. Laura’s off at class. Fuck my twenties. Am relieved to be rid of them. What use is youth in pursuits misguided, all vainglory and heedlessly devouring? A solid decade of my appalling, excruciating, embarrassing, pretentious, poseurish, loserish, naïve, sad, stupid … somethings or other. Whatever it was I was, I’m not proud of it. Erase the lot of it. Finally over and done with, and good god-damned riddance. Sour-grape sentiment be fucked. Dear fortysomething SDH, circa Oct. 2016+: In advance, I hate you too. XOXO