My Birthday is Tomorrow. Jack Morgan will be 31

It's Friday. At the Darjeeling Café tonight, there's one of the few good blue grass bands playing, and the place is filled with pretty women, and I have an amazing woman I call my own. She treats me well most of the time. She's quite beautiful. She's smart. She's funny. She's got an entrepreneurial spirit I respect and admire. She's friendly, and people like her.

The city of Staunton has treated me well. Everything is great, and I have very little to complain about. I don't have enough money for the things I need. The things I want are few, so I hardly notice them. But for what my job lacks in remuneration, it makes up for in fun and the feeling that I just might be helping make a difference in people's lives. Of course, the government wants to foolishly cut arts funding, a considerable foot-shooting maneuver, but whatever. Things are good.

I still write, though I don't publish as often. I have great friends, though I don't see them as often. I still exercise, but not as much as I'd like since the winter's been rough. I'm still into politics, but not as fervently.

But Everything is really good. All is well. But I'm haunted by the specter of something shroudy. . . something that betrays logic and reason. I can't quite put my finger on it.

Tomorrow is a new day. I have plans that are several and involving many. So I'll be older tomorrow. We're always older tomorrow, but one truly feels it on the anniversary of one's birth. I often get depressed around my bday. Do you?