Randolph Many years ago, when I was still young and impressionable, I first read about the so-called “end of the world” Mayan Calendar thing. Depending on the source, the end was either on the 21st or 23rd of December 2012.
My 36th birthday is on the 22nd of December 2012. A week from now.
I don’t believe any of the stories, even though I devour them at a hearty pace. I love stories. I’ve stopped believing in many of them over the years, but that doesn’t stop me from enjoying them.
And yet. There was always some deep-down significance to me about my 36th birthday, whether it was because of the end of the world nonsense, or some other reason. I don’t recall, and it doesn’t matter.
During one of my woo phases (that I think everyone should go through to broaden their mind on how completely mad we all are), there was additional significance attached to the 36th year, as a result of it being a multiple of 9. Crazy, right?
And yet.
I’ve read a lot. Tens of millions of words, easily. I’ve written millions of words myself (on Twitter alone, based on the idea that words are around 5 letters long, I’ve written 400 000 words).
Some of those words I’ve read belong to Neil Gaiman, Stephen King, Dean Koontz and Terry Pratchett. Words about things that go bump in the night, just before they eat you. I’ve even written my fair share, for better or worse.
And yet. That’s the part of my brain attached to this Mayan thing.
In a week from now, a significant part of my mind is going to flounder as a direct result of turning 36.
Crazy, right?