Sometime around 2 am on July 25, 1978 at the Elmhurst Memorial Hospital (back when it was on the north side of the tracks) my mom pushed out her first child. That would be me. And now I'm 45 years old. A fat, middle-aged man. Still got all my hair, at least.
But am I really 45 years old today? Technically, yes, but I'm a little older than that. It's something I hadn't really thought about before until I hit my 1 year anniversary of not drinking. I wondered, what will I do during leap years? Do I count that day? Won't it throw off my anniversary date? Because next year is, indeed, a leap year. I don't think I've thought this much about leap years since Syfy was called the Sci-Fi Channel and they used to have Quantum Leap marathons on February 29.
I guess by then it won't matter too much. What's a day, after all?
But then I started wondering about how I'm actually older than I think. So are you (as long as you're older than four). Since 1978 there have been eleven leap years. So technically today I'm 45 years and eleven days old. Kinda weird thinking about it that way.
It could be worse. My birthday could be on Leap Day. I feel bad for those poor bastards . . .
If you want to do something for my birthday, please buy my books. If you already have, please review them on Amazon or Goodreads or, if you have a review site you write for, I'd greatly appreciate you posting something there. And if you already did those things, consider kicking in for my Patreon. Even if you just do the dollar a month tier, that would be helpful.
Thank you, as always, for reading. Goodnight, you sweet, sweet fuckers.
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