Heyo!
I turned 39 yesterday.
At first I thought, “What a bullshit number. Just let me be 40 already.” But, after some heavy contemplating (drinking), I have changed my tune.
39 is, technically, my last full year of being quote-unquote young. It’s a janky, crooked number, but it’s a number I’m fully embracing. Not in some defiant and desperate “fuck you I refuse to get old” manner, but in an optimistic, don’t-take-take-life-for-granted type of way.
Rounding up your age, even if your birthday is two weeks away, seems weird as hell to me. If I died tragically today, my obituary wouldn’t read: “Danny Palumbo, damn he was pretty much 40.” It would say, “Danny Palumbo, 39.” And then there would be a story about how I was hit by a car chasing a meatball that rolled away onto the street.
Anyway, I have pretty gnarly Campari hangover, which is the worst type of hangover. This is something I talk about with James often—Negroni hangovers feel awful. I feel like I drank 30 melted lollipops spiked with moonshine.
I also don’t have any content for today. I was going to do one of those “39 things I’m grateful for, you bitch!” lists but that doesn’t feel right. I do practice daily gratitude, though. Life is pretty good. Food is central to it. Dining with friends improves one’s life always. And I hope to keep writing stories and thoughts that ya’ll enjoy. I hope to keep encouraging people to go out and eat. I feel lucky that I get to do it.
*burp*
Fuck. I’m hungover and I want Fatburger. If you’re in L.A., go get a Fatburger. Thanks for reading.
Not that this was anything of note, but I’ll be back next week with a more detailed post! Yee-haw. If you haven’t subscribed yet, do so! And if you upgrade to paid, you unlock all kinds of posts from the past!