annual appraisal (please complete and return by post to _____)

23 tomorrow. At the moment I feel nothing for it. I am in the company of abysmal hospital-style coffee. I could offer a list of events of this 22nd year and suggest a hypothesis of how I might have matured as a result, but it's an unnecessary and vain exercise. We don't change through property of number, and in the course of things I don't feel like I have altered, either in my way or my manners, or my opinions concerning things.

I still love black coffee. I still drink too much. I still squeeze and roll my tummy in as I walk to prevent it possibly looking flabby. I've walked far more of London, brewed beer, see people close die and arrange all the functional necessities of disposal. I gained confidence, discovered happiness, became bewitched with a beautiful notion of secret proposal and unique engagement rings. And then like the course of all things, I lost that happiness entirely by the end of last year. I had devote winter to charting a new course, rediscovering confidence a little, brick by brick. I've read a good deal, but not the Schweitzer, Burton, Montaigne and Reverte that still looms from the shelf. I gave my blood to the nhs and my words to another zine, ignominious as all others. I failed to find a meaningful friend though I've met many friends - my old goal now adjusted with the realisation that the world I treat as my friend, but there are none now that I'd look to as a friend to me. This observation seems banal yet dispiriting, but it contains within it a fiery independence and pride.

These words will age quickly, sooner than I will. I'm actually quite young, too young for this old life-weary affection I end up adopting. I offer nothing unique to arts, sciences, popular culture, or conversation. This is 22-year old testimony. My goals are as they have been. For now it's fair weather, but I've been toughened by last season's storms.