Also, the sun is shining.

Well, I'm 36. I'm not sure what that even means to me. Statistically in the US that's the halfway point of your life, but both sides of my family have strong genes and I take care of myself. Then again, there's nothing saying I don't get in an accident and die tomorrow. So I don't live my life thinking about ends or schedules or anything. I would say that I just do what I can to be happy now, and to ensure I'm happy tomorrow, but if you're reading this you've read the rest of my blog, and know that's a load of shit. I tend to delay happiness. Something to do with inertia.

But I'm in a good mood today. I got the fourth season of the West Wing, and a bottle of shiraz, and some DnD stuff and that's all good. I'm wearing one of my favorite shirts, and I'm not letting work get to me, and this weekend I'm going to spend some time on the book. That's really all you can hope for, I think. It's good for me at least.

The only thing I will say for my birthday is that it was on my thirtieth that I realized I wasn't getting anywhere as a writer, mostly because I wasn't writing things, nor was I submitting things to magazine, nor was I reading the magazines I wished to submit to so I had no idea what the state of the industry looked like. So I decided to get serious, and now I'm a little closer to where I want to be. This means that every year on December 12, I can measure how long I've been doing this writer thing by a little act of subtraction. Celsius should be this easy.