Adam is now 364 days away from his thirties. Let us work through his reaction.

1. Denial. His gift haul included a zombie t-shirt, three Classic Transformers, and stuff which goes "BOOM!"

"I am nine years old," he said at one point.

2. Anger. "Thirty next year -- "

"Quiet, you."

"I'm just sayin', you're gonna be in your thirties in a year, and I met you when you were 19 -- "

"SHUSH IT, SHUSHY!"

"Thir --"

"I WILL KEEEEEEEEL YOU!"

(He does not accomplish that at this time.)

3. Bargaining. "Okay, we can celebrate my birthday, but only if I get toys. Okay? I will get older as long as you let me play with my toys in the privacy of my own home. Right?"

4. Depression. "I'm old. Old-de-old-old. Old. Old and busted. Old."

"You're only twenty-nine."

"Yeah. Next year I'll be really old. Old-de-old-old-old."

(This turns into a ten minute melody of oldness. When he wallows, he does it with vigor.)

And finally . . .

5. Acceptance. "You know what's nice about turning thirty?"

"Whazzat?"

"We get to move beyond the shallowness of our youth, y'know? That pressure to be some white-belted, skinny pant hipster kind of eases back. That'll be nice."

That last bit came a little after midnight while scanning the crowd at Burt's. Of course, this was said as he was wearing his threadless t-shirt, swilling a PBR and hanging out with Mayfield, so I'd take it with a large chunk of salt.



Happy birthday, dude.

(Race reaction coming later. Swearsies.)