Did he look into my baby-blues and realize that he'd just fathered one of the most insignificant assholes of the 21st Century?
- Mark Millar, "Bring on the Bad Guys"

"Twenty-One and a Half"
I am 21 and 1/2 years old today.

Not bad for a guy who was once convinced he'd be dead by 18 (and when he made it to voting age, amended that supposition to 21). I've been given the gift of life (which, I suppose I've always had, haven't I?), and yet -- looking back -- I can't say that I've accomplished much in the last six months. I'm in almost exactly the same situation I was in on my 21st birthday, from the job that forces me to wear a hat, to the precariousness of my love life, to the belief that I'm a month away from finishing Scenes from the Next. If anything, I've lost a step in the journey to form The Fourth Incarnation of Clark.

What if I did die on July 4, 2003, and just haven't realized it, like Bruce Willis in The Sixth Sense? (Yeah. That's right. If you haven't seen it yet, I just gave away the ending. But you know what? It's been four years. If you haven't seen it by now, you don't deserve a surprise ending.)

What if hell is nothing more than a world where nothing ever changes?

What if this is the way things are always going to be for me?

...

You know what? Let's stow the whiny defeatist attitude. You've got to be sick of it out of me by now, because I sure as hell am. Let's face it. I'd be lucky if my life stayed like this forever. Heaven forfend I actually get pushed out into the real world.

No. Things are definitely changing for this little black duck. And there's no question as to whether or not it'll be for good or bad, because really, all change is good.

Of course, if I'm still moping when I'm 22 -- and still wearing a hat to work -- I'm certainly going to look rather foolish, aren't I?

I won't be moping at 22.