Dirty Thirty - this is not funny.

I started writing a story tonight for Working Class Zero. The concept was that the gambling industry suffered a global meltdown because I lived until my 30th birthday. I drew parallels between the current economic crisis and the gambling industry in a satirical way, but the krux of the story was that the gambling industry collapsed based on how many people bet on me not making it till thirty.

The whole not-making-it-till thirty thing was a total inside joke between myself and my cousin. It was pretty funny until 30 started approaching... as each day ended, a small part of me wondered if I would make it through the next. Actually, it was pretty hilarious. Black comedy, the greatest. I am a black comedian (not Katt Williams black, but you know what I mean.) So I'm writing this story, and as it's flowing out of me, it gets less and less funny, the balancing beam swings from 'funny' to 'fucking morbid' and I realize how unfunny inside jokes usually are unless you can successfully bring everyone into the joke, and also how unfunny it is to think, let alone joke, about your very own untimely demise.

The fucked up thing is I never really thought I would make it until thirty. I've lived every day like it was my last after reaching a point in my early twenties when I realized I had lived, loved, and lost and was ready for what the future held for me, be it death, destruction, or glory. I mostly hedged on the early death part, which as I write, is fucked up to read. I never invested in the future, set down an established me, prepared for the future much beyond a short term plan (with a few exceptions, notably toward white picket fence 2.5 kids mini van suburban hell that has been touched upon before and undoubtedly will be again.)

Carpe Diem, bitches!

And as I round over the hump that is thirty, I'm realizing I should perhaps plan ahead. Aim a thoughtful eye at the future with the child like perceptive wonder I have tried to observe every day with.

I had a short sleep night last night and a long day of mindless MS word at work today which allowed my brain to wander as I copied, pasted, formatted, re-formatted, checked and re-checked. My brain was racing through a variety of schemes and dreams as it often does, many good ideas, some I thought were so great I had the feeling of hope well up in my stomach as I thought them. At some point, I believe around 4pm, the flash of the discussion Scott's brother and I had one late drunken night in Virginia crashed through my head - we were talking about intelligence and its' impact on personal success, and we exchanged IQ numbers, and he told me we both fell into the sub-genius category, a sort of excellence through mediocrity purgatory filled with drunk almost-been failures. Those in the sub-genius range rarely excel; the greatest minds are in the true genius category (160IQ+) and those below but above simple above average have ridiculous rates of suicide, substance abuse problems, depression, mental health issues, plane jane real deal fuck all bullshit. Those who are true geniuses, 160+, typically get into crazy research jobs, become professors, intellectuals, etc. Those of average to slightly above average intelligence become managers, CEOs, politicians, and white collar Johns. Those in our cursed, blessed, range, have the potential to do great but rarely do. We are rarely recognized for our sub-genius because it doesn't shine as brightly as the true, rare genius. We lack the focus or the specialization to succeed in one field because our interests are scattered, our skills above average but diverse. Hard drugs and hard lives often follow. Excellence through mediocrity. Jerks of All Trades.

I heard this conversation in my head for the millionth time and still I will acknowledge my fate, wink at it, and continue trying to do something great.