I’m turning 30 this Saturday. My twenties are coming to an end.

I’m horrified.

What happens now?

Will I develop an interest in cars?

Will I suddenly find Robin Williams hilarious?

Will the music of Foreigner and Eric Clapton suddenly seem appealing to me? I’ve already found myself humming along to “I Want to Know What Love Is”. Will “Wonderful Tonight” be next?

Recently I discovered to my great horror that I genuinely enjoy “Lavender” by Marillion.

What in God’s name am I turning into? Dave Coulier?!

For 10 years now I’ve been a joyful creature, my friends.

I’ve lived, I’ve laughed, I’ve loved.

I’ve annoyed the shit out of my fellow man.

Always a carefree whippersnapper, I’ve partaken in all forms of merriment and festivities available to me, including drinking my own piss and displaying an Olympic level of cocksmanship.

All this is coming to an end this Saturday.

This loose cannon has fired its last shot.

The carnage is over, and this cowboy is riding into the sunset.

OK, OK, I’ve never really been carefree. I’m a gloomy bastard who sometimes wakes up screaming from the sheer terror of discovering that I still live and breathe among all you filthy parasites and soul-sucking demons.

The world has always been an absurd carnival of idiocy and lies to me, and life is a slow build-up to an underwhelming punchline.

But the number 30 still seems too fucking final to me. Like a death sentence. Like receiving the Black Spot or a doctor telling you you’ve gotten both AIDS and syphilis along with your cancer.

I thought I at least would experience some kind of satisfying equilibrium by now. Some kind of soothing feeling of accomplishments well done and a youth well lived.

Nope. Not me. When I enter the thirties, it will be as a broken man full of regret and a head full of classic-rock songs.

It will all go downhill from here on. This is the autumn of my life.

Nothing to do but wait around for the broken dreams and testicular cancer.

I must end this piece now. There’s an autumn wind creeping in through the the walls and it’s impossible to keep out. The only thing to do is to go to bed, bury myself in the blankets, and let the darkness embrace me.

I will not fight back. I will not rage against the dying of the light.

I will, though, fight like mad to get fucking «Lavender» out of my head.

Goodnight, misspent youth.

Hello, dark abyss of adulthood.

—LASSE HOLMBERG JOSEPHSEN

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