After Math

If I start talking about how I’m leaving Palolem tomorrow evening, I’m pretty sure I’ll start sounding like a broken record. I think I’ve pretty much been obsessed with my leaving pretty much since I got here three months ago. You’d think I’d have learned by now to live a little bit more in the present.

Last night was my birthday party (I turned 29 on the fourth) and my last headphone party as well; it might possibly be the last headphone party over all. As you might have expected, it all went a little bit insane. Dancing, shouting, stumbling, drinking, climbing, abusing, laughing, talking, gibbering, jumping; and that was before we’d even hit the party.

We found a huge boulder to perch on and watch the festivities (when we weren’t in the middle of it). From there we surveyed the mayhem. Since the party hadn’t been held for two weeks previous, we weren’t certain if it was absolutely going to pack out or fail miserably. Luckily, it did the first. I think I eventually got to sleep somewhere in the late, late morning and I was certainly not the last person to turn in.

The reason I’m not sure what time I turned in is because I’ve got a new little tactic that I use now if it gets too late. I don’t look at the clock, so that I don’t know how late it actually is. That way, when I do turn in I can’t afterwards complain ‘oh, I only slept three hours’. I might have, but on the other hand, it might have been seven, for all I know. Rest through self-deception.

It’s time for me to write my letter to me. I’ve been doing this for two or three years now (I think it’s two), where I write myself a letter ten years in the future. It’s definitely a long term project, but I think when I’m older it will be great looking back at all the nonsense I got up to. If I live long enough I might have well over sixty letters. I imagine you could do some interesting self analysis based on sixty years of birthday thoughts.

Interestingly, my birthday letters to myself are pretty much the only things I still hand write. There’s a good reason for that, namely that my handwriting is pretty atrocious. I’ve been wondering if, when I open my first letter, I’ll even be able to understand what it I’ve written. It would be terribly ironic if I spend so much time sending myself letters ten years in the future and then, when they finally arrive, I can’t even read them. A bit of an anti-climax; though I guess not being able to read them already says a great deal.

No, I’m not exactly sure what I’m talking about and why I’m still talking. I need coffee.