Squeak’s Squeals

Have you ever sat at home - wide awake at 6 o’clock on a Saturday morning - and felt the itch?  The fierce internal need to go out and do something childish and stupid?  It’s like an urge for a mini midlife crisis (or in my case, since I refuse to count myself among the mid-aged, a mini PRE-midlife crisis).

I went through this a few years back - before meeting the Neanderthal - while facing the impending damnation that is and/or was my 30th birthday (oh, vile, evil day of despair - I still wear black to mourn the loss of my youth).  Anyway, it manifested itself as a serial dating binge - it was something insane, like 30 dates with 25 men in three months.  Then the Neanderthal popped into my life and it all stopped.

But the itch has returned.  The need to do something completely, utterly stupid is slowly taking over any conscious attempt to subdue the desire.  And, no, I don’t mean that I am desiring to date 25 more men (puhleez!  Once is enough, people!  Honestly, how many men can one woman tolerate before she snaps?).  What I mean is I just want to do something reckless and stupid like I would have done ten years ago - perhaps spending a weekend in an alcoholic stupor (one weekend is all it would take… my body simply can’t process that crap like it used to), or maybe grabbing the girlfriends for an improptu road trip with no map, no plan and no destination (ah, the good ol’ days), maybe a costume party in an outfit no one should actually wear in public (last time this happened, the GFs and I went as a pimp ‘n hoes…. holy cleavage, Batman!  I was so proud of my alabaster orbs).

Regardless, my point here is that there is a fire burning deep in the darkest recesses of my bowels and slowly working its way through the rest of my body where I will be overcome by the craving, the thirst - nay, the insatiable hunger - to spend a weekend living free and wild (and probably half naked).  Well, here’s hoping when I finally succumb to my fevered lust for immaturity that it is (1) blog-worthy and (2) without police intervention.  w00t!

The girls go wild at humor-blogs.com.

I had nearly escaped this fateful day forgotten by friends and family. Then my 16-year-old cousin logged into his MySpace account and left me this little gem:

guess what i was told from a little birdy
i hear that someone has just turned 30!
Suddenly i began to smile
then i sat and thought for a while,
what shall i do
to the ever-deserving you?
Then, suddenly i could see
and it came to me.
I would recite a poem from the heart
about you, my dear old fart!

My response, you ask?

Your birdy was wrong,
They lied in their song,
My birthday it is not.
Until the day that I die,
I will remain twenty-nine.
As you shall remain a snot.

These damned whipper-snappers! Don’t make me get the cane!

You’ll find more ill intended old jokes at Humor-Blogs.com.

Well, it’s official. I’m old. And the Grim Reaper didn’t pay me a visit in the night. I’ve survived to reach the first day of my next decade.

Last night, I witnessed the foreshadowing of the beginning of the end. A plague of locusts swarmed my living room - well, two locusts swarmed my living room, but close enough to a plague for me. And I was faced with the brutal realization that my birthday falls on garbage day this year. Time to pack me in a lawn and leaf bag and put me out to pasture.

Part of me has decided to be optimistic about it - start working out, quit smoking, make the next thirty more productive than the last. Another part of me wants to spend eternity in denial - none of this actually happened and I will be young forever. Another part is indifferent - same shit, different day. And the rest of me wants to scream, cry and go into hiding for the rest of my days - a shriveled, old hermit troll, hiding my wrinkled exterior from the eyes of the masses. No one told me turning thirty would cause my mind to split itself into thirty separate, crazy personalities - one for each year of psychosis I have thus far endured.

Eh, to hell with it. I’m old. I’m pruning as I type. My boobs stare at the floor. My hair is in a bun and I have a granny sweater. May as well go all the way - get myself a couple dozen cats, some velcro shoes, a cane and a pair of reading glasses. Now…. if I can just be patient enough to wait until the hump back forms and my hair becomes completely devoid of color…. THEN my transformation into Super Nerd Geezer will be complete! Muwahahaha!

I need to find myself a cape…..

Find more old crazy people at Humor-Blogs.com.

At this exact moment, I am less than two hours away from bidding adieu to my spent youth and waving a brave howdy to the next psychotic decade of my life.

I can feel the wrinkles deepening. I can feel the gray hair sprouting. I’m having chest pains. I’m short of breath. My feet look weird and I believe I’m developing a tumor somewhere, I just have to find it.

All my life, I have considered thirty (ow! Chest pains just typing that word! That evil, evil T-word!) to be extraordinarily old. And now, as I sit here - trembling and shriveling - on the cusp of my last, fleeting moments as a hip, cool twenty-something, I realize I was right.

Will I awake in the morning? Or will these be my final sad attempts at humor? Will old age take me in my sleep? Or will I rise in the dew of the dawn to find myself in orthopedic shoes and wielding a walker?

There is an actual reason the T-word has me so horribly freaked out, but I can’t explain it here. This is a humor blog. The tale behind the irrational fear is not a humor tale. And so, I think I will call it a night. We geezers need our rest. I should have been in bed HOURS ago. If I get overtired, I may fall while in a fog of exhaustion and shatter a hip. And, honestly, I shouldn’t be looking into hip replacements for at least another year!

Geriatricness gotcha down? Get a lift at Humor-Blogs.com!