J. Beaman - The Magazine

I was sitting on my couch this afternoon, slouched way down, with an ashtray as big as a really fucking big brick on my chest, listening to records (yes, records) and a warm thought came to me. My eighteen-year-old self would be happy with my nearly thirty-year-old self. This means I’m cool according to my eighteen-year-old self, which is good because the biggest fear of most eighteen-year-olds, besides getting your girlfriend pregnant or turning into an alcoholic, is turning sucky when you get older. My eighteen-year-old self doesn’t just think I’m cool for thirty either, he just thinks I’m cool period.
Some of you may be saying, “All this talk about how cool you are makes you not so cool.” I take your point and have this to say:

Oftentimes I hate myself, so when I feel good you shouldn’t bring me down. Or else my eighteen-year-old self will kick your ass. Or my thirty-year-old self will cry.