still doing better than i was three months out of my thirty-seventh birthday, cowboy.

ben: why do i feel like i drank a whole bottle of gin and smoked a giant bag of weed and passed out on a hardwood floor near a malfunctioning radiator when all we did last night was take the train into d.c., have some nice falafel, and watch low perform at a venue i used to go to several times a month, sometimes on work nights?

me: welcome to your late thirties.

ben: goddamnit.