There’s a certain terror to approaching this age with me. I don’t know exactly why. I mean, it’s not like it’s 40, or 35, or I’m comparing my success (or total lack thereof) with anybody else’s. I guess it’s kind of like waiting. Waiting for the next part of my life to start. I mean, my youth is flying away faster and faster, and what have I accomplished? I still live with my mother, no relationship, no children…but I do have a dog and independence. I guess that’s good. I guess maybe I thought I would accomplish more by this time, such as a job, kids or some way to be remembered by. I mean, life is short and nearly meaningless enough. Is there no way to be remembered by? No way to put down a record saying, “I was here”? That is the scary part for me. My life is fast slipping out of my hands, and there is no record of it. I mean, I exist. But there is no record or proof that I exist. Maybe that is the scariest thing of all.