Being an adult.

I’m typing this up as my infant son sleeps on our bed next to me.

My son Elliot Akira. My SON.

I still can’t believe it. I’m an adult.

I’m responsible to a beautiful wife.

My son depends on me for entertainment and wisdom.

My abdomen calls through the flab for some crunches.

Brewed, distilled and fermented drinks go nice with dinner.

The government expects more out of me.

I can grill meats meats like nobody’s business.

My metabolism can’t keep up with my appetite.

If I was a professional soccer player, I would be nearing the height of my career.

Bill used to just be an uncle. Now it’s a monthly commitment.

I read more than I ever have. I play less video games than I ever have.

I enjoy longer runs. More time to think. More time to relax.

I’m more cynical of my intentions in doing good.

The Gospel tastes sweeter than ever.

I’m no longer wolf-rhino.

My hair is working its way to being part Clooney and part alpaca: more gray, more stringy-puff.

I’m twenty-five years old now.

I remember thinking twenty-two was old. Now I think sixty-five is young.


This is the first of a seven-part series.

The next one is coming out in 2024, so keep your eyes out.