don’t trust anyone over thirty, except me

That’s right, I’m the birthday, I’m the birthday, I’m the birthday boy or girl. And it’s one of those numbers where I’m tempted to start comparing my life to that of the normal man’s. But I won’t because thiings are always going forward or backward and sliding around or staying still.
Sure i don’t have a job n’ car n’ partner like the norms, but that doesn’t worry me. What is worth stopping to think about is that I still have the same head I had when i was eleven. I found this the other day – the first ever diary i kept, starting mid-1985 and kept regularly for all of two weeks:

Thursday 13 June,
Since it is a 13 I thought it might be bad luck. I had a stacker on the roller-skates. I think my teacher could be rollin in the cash I have one reason why I say that, she has a number plate that says VB and that is her initials. Here is some other things with V.B.: Vic Bitter, Vampire Bat
Aircraft: 4
Today was pretty normal.

Wednesday 19 June,
Today i got the June Mad and it is a spechel rock issue out of my pocket moneny. I am adding a new segment called the school report that will tell you about school. By the way the spy mission is on Tuesday the 25
Aircraft: 4
by the way this was not written before the dinosours were around.

Thursday 20 June,
Today two of my Pacer rubbers and my Pacer were stollen    my suspects are virgil, Tim k, Shane, David and russel    Tim and Shane have each got one of my Pacers rubber each. I am not sure but I think Virgil has got my pacer so I have taken out all of my good things out of my pencil case in case they get stollen too. Today I tried out my boat at the dam. It sunk
Aircraft: 5

The rest are mainly about a girl i had a crush on and even after 19 years are still embarrassing. I counted aeroplanes because this was not long after the family sox had moved from a 5 year stint cash-cropping early strains of high-grade skunk deep in the remote south west, to smalltime gun-running in the hip off the leg that is the Mornington peninsula. Steel birds were a novelty. Back down there, the only plane I’d seen was some old puddle-jumper that’d crashed into the jungled cliffs of Port Cambell. It became the central object of worship for a cargo cult that sprang up not long after.

I don’t know. Things aren’t always what they seem. I’m not writing this. I’m not here right now. That’s not even me.

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