the very young and bitter author
Next week I’m turning 29 years old.
Shit, it seems like only yesterday I was 22, 24, 26…
Most thirty-somethings will tell you, “I would NEVER want to relive my twenties!”, and I’m starting to feel the same way.
Though “30 years old” is a tough pill to swallow, I’m enjoying the ride so far. It’s been significantly more stable the past few years.
Sliding into home plate has left less scratches and bruises than hitting the first ball.
In my early twenties, I didn’t know my ass from my face. And believe me, at times I felt I looked like nothing more than a big fat asshole.
At 20 I moved to Los Angeles to be a personal assistant and I thought I was cooler than cool. I had broken free from my small town in Upstate New York and was around the celebrities and industry that I grew up wanting to be a part of.
It was a good front; I actually felt extremely lost, confused, lonely and for the first time in my life, horribly insecure.
Of course, (more…)