The Big Two-Six

“Twenty-six.”

Go ahead, say it out loud. It rolls off the tongue like a deflated basketball that makes a sploink sound when you try to dribble it. It’s just so…so…close to thirty. Sure, it's only a number, but it's a terrible, stupid number that should be twice as feared as thirteen. I could round down to twenty when I was twenty-five, because the basic principles of math are easy to ignore when they don’t suit your needs, but twenty-six? That’s boarding the train to Thirtyville, next stop Responsibilityhood, layover in Metamuciltown.

Okay, so twenty-six isn’t actually old in the scheme of things, but it can feel that way sometimes. Many people may not know this, but single Mormon males age faster than your average white protestant, much like dogs. It’s true. For example, in Mormon years I am very close to being lit on fire and set adrift on an ice flow into the Arctic Ocean. Wait, maybe that’s the Eskimos. Or the Vikings.

Anyway, I’ve decided to give twenty-six a chance. I mean really get to know it. Buy it dinner, have awkward conversation. Maybe invite it back to my place to show it my Magic: The Gathering card collection before it feigns a phone call and jumps out of my second-story window.

“Third time this month. I’ve really got to start buying stronger windows…”

And in order to become at peace with twenty-six, I’ve done some introspection. Am I at a good spot in my life? Have I grown as a person? Did I watch enough television? Possibly too much? For this reason I’ve decided to let 16 year-old Nathan interview me, 26 year-old Nathan. I don’t have time to think of a good set up for how this could feasibly happen.

 Okay, fine. I built a time traveling Delorean out of Legos. Happy?

....................................................................................................................

16 Year-Old Nathan: Dude, whatsup? Ha, nice hair.

26 Year-Old Nathan: Hey, man. Not much. Nice Linkin Park shirt! *snicker*

16: What?

26: Nothing, nothing. Anyway, you want to ask me stuff about the future you…the current me?

16: Yeah, so…you’re a rock star by now, right?

26: No.

16: Professional skateboarder?

26: No.

16: Dang…Are you at least a bear wrestler?

26: No. I work in public relations.

16: I don’t even know what that means.

26: It’s a job that allows you to write and do graphic design, two things you will realize later in life that you really enjoy doing. It will not pay a whole lot, it does not come with groupies, and it rarely requires you to wrestle bears.

16: …Oh. Okay. So, umm do you still have the same friends?

26: No. I mean, I still know all your current friends. I keep track of them through Facebook.

16: Facebook? What’s that?

26: It’s like AOL Instant Messenger, except more potent and injected straight into your veins.

16: Oh…kay.

26: Your old friends will always be a part of your life. Friendships will change, though. People come and go, except for Cameron. Cameron will always be there, and according to my recent interview with 36 Year-Old Nathan, you will eventually end up living in his basement, only coming out at night to drink his milk straight from the carton while in your underpants.

16: I always kinda figured that’s how it would be.

26: The new friends you make in your twenties will be awesome, though. They will come to your 26^th birthday party at Cracker Barrel and watch you drown your sorrows at the bottom of a pile of pancakes.

16: I was hoping I would still love pancakes.

26: Your love of pancakes still borders on unnatural, yes.

16: So, am I married by then?

26: Yes, you are married. Married…to the streets!

16: Um…

26: Don’t hate the player, hate the game.

16: Those are just rap clichés. They don’t even answer my q-

26: Put your hands in the air if you feel fine.

16: …

26: Okay, so I’m not married, but that hasn’t exactly been high up on the ol’ list of things to do. There are still several Zelda games I have yet to beat, and I still have priorities.

16: Ah, well that’s understandable. So from what I gather, you’ve got a job you enjoy, friends who care about you, and you still have time to play video games?

26: Uhh, yes that’s pretty much how it is.

16: So what the heck are you griping about?

26: Excuse me?

16: You’ve got it good! Why are you complaining?

26: Don’t you get that tone with me, young man! I’ll call your father and tell him you’ve been driving the Blazer to Birmingham and that’s why the gas tank is always empty!

16: Look, all I’m saying is that life hasn’t turned out the way you planned it – wrestling bears in an illegal underground bear wrestling ring while playing stadium arena rock concerts on the weekends to sustain your bear wrestling habit. But it’s still a good life.

....................................................................................................................

I hate it when I’m right! Things are pretty good right now. I think I will actually enjoy twenty six. I’ll reassess my life when I’m thirty.

Thirty will require at least this many pancakes.

You Never Read This, Because I Never Wrote It

Dear Internet,

You are often used as an anonymous land where people show their true selves. We can’t be ourselves in the real world, because the real world is full of judgment and police. You are a platform to put aside the airs we give society, and to let out the waistband of shamefulness on our sweatpants of scorn. For example, many commenters at Youtube reveal that they are functionally illiterate, while still many others reveal that they are racist crapweasels. Some anonymous commenters go the extra mile and reveal that they are functionally illiterate racist crapweasels who deserve a very public beating.

 Pictured: Youtube comments section

But not me. I choose to use you, the internet, to reveal what I secretly want for my birthday. However, I will also accept these presents on other holidays, such as Christmas, Valentine’s Day, Arbor Day, Flag Day, and garbage day.

The same rules that apply to Youtube commenters apply to this blog, though. If you saw a Youtube commenter out on the street and mentioned, “Hey, I saw that comment you posted on my video with the cute kittens pawing at yarn. I disagree that Obama is actually an evil Marxist robot, and I question the authenticity of the lascivious claims you’ve leveled against my mother,” the commenter will immediately deny he ever said these things. “Sir, I am an upstanding citizen! I’m a third grade teacher who volunteers at the animal shelter; I would never slander someone like that!”

If you see me out in the world and mention this blog post to me, I will start acting bewildered and make my way to incredulous. If that doesn’t work, I will hurl deflective insults at you. If that still doesn’t work, I will throw a chair through the nearest window and run away holding my ears and yelling, “LALALA I CAN’T HEAAAR YOUUUU!” I don’t have a plan for after that, because that option has never not worked. The best way to give me these presents would be to break into my apartment while I’m not there and leave them on my bed. The less interaction the better, because:

I want a Pillow Pet.

But, it’s normal for a grown man to want one of these, right? RIGHT?...Of course it isn’t, Internet. That’s why you’ve got to keep this secret for me. But seriously look at this thing and tell me you don’t want to take a nap on it knowing that every dream you have will take place in Candyland, and that you’ll be hanging out with the Care Bears.

This turtle whispers words of encouragement in your ear as you sleep

Now look at how stupid and ugly your regular pillow is, with its stupid, ugly rectangular shape and ugly, stupid striped pillowcase. The thing doesn’t even have a smile on it. It doesn’t love you!

70% cotton, 100% love and giggles

I’ve thought about buying one for myself, but then I thought about how awkward checking out at Wal-Mart would be.

Me: “THIS IS FOR MY SISTER!”

Cashier: “Um, that’s nice, sir. Would you li-“

Me: “SHE’S SEVEN!”

Cashier: “Sir, you really don’t have to yell. You are scaring the cust-“

Me: “LADYBUGS!”

Cashier: “I’m sorry, sir. Ladybugs? What does that have to do with anyth-“

Me: “SHE LOVES LADYBUGS! MY SISTER! THE ONE THAT THIS PILLOW PET IS FOR!”

“SHE ALSO LOVES GIRAFFES AND PLATYPUSES! SHUT UP AND CHECK ME OUT!”

Cashier: “That’s wonderful, sir, but I’m going to have to ask you to stop yelling. There are other people in line.”

Me: “I’M SORRY IT’S JUST THAT I GET NERVOUS BUYING SOMETHING AS RIDICULOUS AS THIS FOR MYSE-“

*Our eyes meet. Wal-mart falls silent*

Me (quietly):……”sister. I meant ‘for my sister.’”

*I break down crying as security guards take me away*

And even if I did buy myself a Pillow Pet without having to register my address with the state, I’d have to hide it when guests come over. Which begs the question, “How many Pillow Pets do I actually own that people don’t know about yet?”

You’d be surprised at how many of these you can fit into a crawlspace

So now you see why I can only talk about this anonymously. Thanks for listening, Internet. You're always there for me.

Anonymously yours,

Nathan

The Effects of Time on Milk - A Scholarly Discourse

Excerpts from the journals of Dr. Nathaniel Gregor Leevinski - mad scientist, affable slob.

Day 138

My study on the exciting potential of spoiled milk as a new, world-changing biofuel has come to an end. It is with a sad heart that I must confess my failure, and it is with a gas tank full of chunky sour cream that I wish I had tested on animals first. I only hope that my research can go on to inspire other scientists to try every substance on the planet one by one until we find a new and renewable energy source. For example, I hear that researchers in Switzerland are making great strides in studying ferret secretions.

Picture taken right before they were jammed inside the gas tank of an F-150.

Although I have given up hope for a biofuel, I plan on continuing my research and experiments on the effects of time on milk. I started all this because I was too lazy to throw away my expired jugs, and, frankly, I'm not feeling any friskier. I'm now hoping for a new type of cheese or possibly a paint remover.

Day 142

The contents of the jugs have all separated into a yellowy liquid with hunks of gelatinous, white solids swimming around. It looks oddly similar to the results of my previous study, "The Effects of Urine on Mouse Buoyancy". I thought the semi-solid might make for a good sandwich spread, so, hoping for a tastier alternative to mayonnaise, I slathered some on a sandwich. It was the worst thing I'd ever eaten, except for mayonnaise. At first I considered this a success, but my super-refined palate corrupted my data, and if I wanted to mass market this spread as "Milk of Mayonesia" I needed to find out what the general public thought. I made a sandwich tray with my new spread and brought it to my friend's party for testing. I didn't tell anyone of the change as to not sway their judgment, and I asked them what they thought of the sandwich as they took their first bite. It was hard to tell what their gurgling meant, and I eagerly await the day when they get out of the hospital so I can clarify their response and politely ask them to drop their many, many lawsuits.

Day 157 

I have found a new direction in my research. The gallon of milk that expired April 5th has taken on a bloated and frightening shape. This can only be due to a gaseous buildup, probably of that cow methane I hear so much about. I'm afraid to open the jug myself, but I have dreams of harnessing and utilizing the heinous gas as an agent of bio warfare. I've got calls in to some interested countries, mostly ones we are technically at war with. To be fair, I did give the US right of first refusal.

They'll see. They'll all see. BWAHAHAHA!

Day 164

This morning I noticed that one of the jugs had taken on an orangish hue and a citrus scent. Confused by this strange occurrence, I tested the pH balance and came to a stunning conclusion - that wasn't a jug of milk at all! Apparently the only thing living in my fridge that is grosser than my gallons of milk is my roommate's orange juice. It had globules of slimy mold floating around in it. Seriously, it looked like a gallon of egg drop soup. Sure, I have three gallons of milk old enough to start attending pre-school, but orange juice? I mean, even I've got standards. If only being a mad scientist paid enough to get my own apartment...

Mmmmmm......pulp!

Day 180 

I've reached the end of my rope. I can't find a single use for these gallons of clotted milk, and I've tried almost everything. It makes for a terrible denture adhesive, according to those surprisingly rude folks at the senior citizen home. It actually was a pretty effective hair gel, but I don't think people would buy a product with the advertised side effects of "overnight alopecia and scalp lesions". There's only one thing left to try. I didn't want to do this, but...

            

                 *******************************************************************************************************

I awoke feeling groggy on the kitchen floor. Zach was standing over me.

"Dude, wake up."

"What? Oh man, I had the strangest dream," I said as I stood up and held my throbbing head. "I was a crazy scientist studying milk that had expired almost 6 months ago. Who would have that in their fridge? Hahaha! I mean, half a year! Isn't that weird?"

Zach stroked his thick, manly beard and squinted his eyes.

"You would."

Confused, I turned around and beheld my three gallons of milk and Zach's gallon of orange juice.

"We were cleaning our kitchen and you opened that disgusting milk jug. You must have inhaled too many fumes."

Sheepishly, I gathered the jugs and put them in a trash bag, and we made the grueling, exhausting, and possibly 50 yard trip to our apartment's garbage bin. Dr. Leevinski would have been proud.

"I've learned a valuable lesson here, Zach."

Zach squinted his eyes again, his beard bristling in the wind.

"And what is that? Being lazy isn't a rewarding way to live, and that with just a little more effort our place can be kept in compliance with at least the health code regulations enforced by hot dog carts?"

"Heavens no!" I chuckled, jealous of his beard. "I should start buying half gallons."

Long and ridiculous story short - we cleaned our kitchen.