I will not wallow in self-pity.
I will not wallow in self-pity.
I will not wallow in self-pity.
I will not wallow in self-pity.
I will not wallow in self-pity.

Wallowing is a thoroughly unattractive activity and appropriately performed only by members of the swine family.

At least I've discovered something that I think has permanently cured me of any tendency to obsess over my age. Whenever I start getting jealous of all the fresh-faced overly energetic twenty-two-year-olds I work with, I remind myself that if the world ends next week, I will have had ten years more of life than they have. Ten glorious years. What does it matter that I'm poor, single, and my acting career consists mainly of trying to pretend that I don't hate my job?

Now I don't even mind that today is my half-birthday and that I will be 33 in 6 months (that's assuming the world hasn't ended). The thought of 33 is a little sobering but when I consider the alternative, I'm positively delighted at the prospect.

They say laughter keeps you young, so here is another funny-to-no-one-but-myself joke for your enjoyment (or lack thereof):

Did you hear about the two antennas who got married?
The wedding was terrible, but the reception was terrific.