John didn’t mind turning thirty. He laughed as his younger mates called him old and he clinked his beer with his older mates who welcomed him to middle age. Thirty-one had been even better, but that may have been more because he was celebrating in Bali with his new girlfriend. But thirty-two was awful.

Suddenly, when he woke in the morning, he felt old. His back hurt when he rolled over, and he slipped enough in the shower to jolt his neck. The alarm had not woken him, so he spent the day trying to catch up. The sun hurt his eyes and his coffee tasted like soap.

At dinner with the girl that he was trying to figure out how to dump, his fish was undercooked and his broccoli overcoooked. He drank too much wine. After dessert, she dumped him and he became melancholy, stumbling drunkenly to a friend’s house, waking his wife and kids, and sleeping on his couch with only one shoe off. His last thought as he passed out was ‘Thirty-two sucks.’

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