The Big 33.

I turned 33 last week. I am a horrible writer which has been the bane of my existence for as long as I can remember, but this is what I wrote that day.

I’ve come to a point in my life where I am actually very okay with where I am. This says quite a bit since I went through the majority of my years up until this point trying to figure out why the hell we are all here. The meaning of life. That kind of shit. Seriously, this was an every day occurrence in my head. Hence why I wanted to join the Peace Corps seven years ago when I initially came down to Mexico to learn Spanish. Now, after thirty-three years, I’ve finally figured out that it doesn’t matter. It’s all going to happen anyway. I’m here for some reason that I will never really be able to explain and that’s okay. I’m not searching anymore. I mean I am, for some things, but for who I am not so much. More for connections and moments within the larger picture. The ones that go by so fast you forget they ever happened. That’s what I miss with this memory of mine. Those that know me well know that I have a horrible memory. I remember very little about my life if not prompted by someone else. My childehood, f-stops and shutter speeds, movies. My mind is kind of like a big blank canvas every day. It’s not as entertaining as you think it would be which is why I’ve starting taking at least one photograph a day of me or something I’m doing. If I’m not going to remember it on my own I’m going to need some help. So here’s my instant birthday. It was rad. Mostly because my friends kick ass.

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