In just a few weeks I’ll be thirty. O dark dark dark! All passion spent! Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun! And so on. The window for being a wunderkind has officially closed, no longer can I coast on my innate freshness and vigor. No more “having potential.” No more blaming my immediate problems on being young and foolish. No more discounts or avuncular fancy-seeing-you-here looks at our institutions of higher culture. And if I don’t get it together quickly, I have only a very short few years before I start seeing a new, quietly troubling look in people’s faces, a look that says: shouldn’t you have accomplished a bit more with your life?
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