It's my Birthday

Joy.

I'd like to say that I'm either excited or depressed about the occasion, but I am neither.

Frankly, it just doesn't mean that much to me. No, I don't see this as a sign of depression. I'm not. I've just never been big on birthdays. They're artificial markers of time gone by. Yes, I know that's not a revelation, but I really believe it. I mean, I hope my car insurance goes down. I hope my girlfriend doesn't realize how much older I am than her. But, generally, I just don't care.

Anyway, I'm driving down to D.C. to see the family before everybody heads off to different corners of the planet. My parents are going back to Venezuela. My brother is already in Darfur. My sister-in-law and niece and nephew will be off to Budapest before moving to Stockholm, where my brother will join them. Somehow all this makes pursuing a career in show-business in New York City seem less exciting. While I'm in D.C. I will register as a resident, because New York auto insurance is ridiculous. My sister has a house there, so it will all look good on paper. Don't tell.

I'm done promising to keep up with this blog. I also don't believe there are too many people waiting with baited breath for my next installment. It's not low self-esteem. It's just that I'm so inconsistent about it, that my dedicated readers have long moved on to more prolific bloggers. And that's fine.

Love Sven