I am kind of half-hoping to choke to death in a pool of my own vomit in the next 12 months. I mean, don’t get me wrong. I love my life, and I would never want to give that up. But I’m kind of ambivalent about letting go of the rock star thing.

See, today’s my birthday. I’m turning 27, which is when all the rock stars kick. Jim Morrison, Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Kurt Cobain, you know the litany. But I am still pretty convinced I’m young, and even more convinced that I’ve got mad motherfucking rock star style. There is, unfortunately, a bit of credible evidence to the contrary. Like the conspicuous lack of drugs and guitars in my life. Although I did take some Sudafed last week when my sinuses were acting up.

I’m not giving up yet, though. I might just be a folk rocker or something. It’s still quite possible I’ll soon find myself on a tour bus, not sure which town I’m going to or which one I just left, still reeling from the previous night’s excesses and arranging for various types of aquatic creatures to be assembled in my suite for tonight’s perverted display of bacchanalian hedonism. But if not, I figure my easy out will be to choke on a ham sandwich, thus proving what a goddamned rock star I am. That’s my backup plan.

Well, I see my roadies are starting to assign tonight’s prospective groupies into their categories, applying my careful taxonomy of wants, needs, preferences and depraved desires, so it’s time for me to cut this short.

Meanwhile, thanks for reading. The past year has been the hardest, and most satisfying, of my entire life. I’ve truly never been happier to be alive, or more excited about my life. That’s a present so good, you can’t even put it on your Amazon wishlist. A happy birthday, indeed.