After covering the BNP Paribas Open at Indian Wells last weekend, I realized I had to plan something for my birthday. After debating through restaurants and bars and all that nonsense, I decided to rent a rather large room at The Standard in Downtown L.A., have people bring junk takeout food and booze (and hookers and blow which to my chagrin no one brought) and just stay in the room where I can control the music and ambiance without having to deal with a bunch of douches.
It was successful – I had a few people over who seemed like they had fun. Of course reality and the fact that I am now 32, not 23, crashed down hard on me as I had a horrible hangover yesterday. But once I got done with that, I did have a guy over to fuck. Yes, it was one of the few times I was a top and we had lovely sweaty sex all over the room.
Now I’m sitting on the bed, writing this instead of doing research covering the preseason Dodgers-Angels game tonight (my first baseball game I’m covering since Oct. 2) while drinking coffee.
And thinking about this weekend, I realize that this should have been done when I was 23. But everything I’m doing in life – going back to school, writing on the cheap, being poor, moving back home – is just like that. I should have been doing all of this when I was 23. I guess I’m a slow learner.
Wifey just sent an email that hits on this point further.
Two Saturdays ago:
My mother: Why do you HAVE to go out?
My father: Because he’s a young…ish… guy and it’s Saturday?
Me: Because I didn’t do it when I was in my twenties! What a fucking waste THAT was!