A while back I met a friend for beers for "old times sake" - the original plan being some sort of re-creation of the recreation (you can SO tell I'm a linguist, huh? HUH?) of yesteryear. Plans being the wobbly things they are, the end result was a bit different than the expected rampage and bacchanalian frenzy.
Not that I didn't enjoy myself, but that bzzz feeling I used to get at the end of the first drink, the one that told me moremoremorefunfunfunmoremoremore just isn't there these days. I remember the slightly desperate tingle -similar somehow to the tingle of insomnia - that would always put me right on the edge, only to throw myself gleefully over it - Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! Oblivion! Life of the party! Cowabunga!! (*is child of the 80's*). Bejesus, did I have me some great times there in mid air; but to stretch this rotten metaphor a bit longer, in the end I always hit the ground.
Truth is, I'm getting old. There. I said it!
*pulls out rocker*
*piles up cats*
*develops stink eye*
*tells damn kids to get off my lawn*
*cackles gleefully*
Ok, perhaps I'm not quite there yet, but the reality is that I just don't have the patience and energy for the shenanigans of yesteryear. It's such a cliche to be in a relationship and suddenly have your tolerance for alcohol drop by cubic tons ("oh, I'll have a glass of red wine, thanks"), to develop a burning interest in cooking sites and recipes (and having them delivered to your door courtesy of the nearest feed) instead of madly jumping between the stepping stones of the interwebz, searching for the latest, most hardcore, underground art movement ("if only I lived in XXX, I'd totally be OUT THERE instead of here, in this cultural vacuum!"). So, yes - perhaps I am a living breathing cliche. But damn if I'm not enjoying it.
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