-There’s a great scene in 61* – the movie about Roger Maris and Mickey Mantle chasing Babe Ruth’s single-season home run record – where Mantle tells Maris that he’s too hurt to keep playing. “He’s all yours if you want him,” Mantle says of Ruth, “You go get that fat fuck.” As my thirty-first birthday approaches on Friday and my ailing shoulder continues to hamper me, I feel a little like Mickey Mantle: plagued by injuries yet still chasing tail and boozing heavily. I also feel a little like Roger Maris: pursuing elusive goals despite seemingly insurmountable odds. Thus I’ve decided to give my own upcoming birthday an asterisk. My first year as a thirtysomething was no doubt eventful, but I still believe the best is yet to come. Success, love, happiness, and health are my Babe Ruth. And I will continue to chase that fat fuck.

-My first encounter with mortality came two weeks ago, when I got an MRI on my shoulder, which has dislocated nine times in the past eight months. Being in that scary little tube really makes you ponder your existence: Why is this happening to me? When did I get old? How much is this going to cost? And where the hell are Olivia Wilde and Omar Epps with their witty banter?

-This is the first time in six years I won’t be holding my notorious birthday pub crawl in New York. I don’t do anything half-ass, and each year’s seven-hour, nine-bar crawl featured drink specials, maps, and souvenir cups. It’s not that I’ve gotten too old for all that drinking, it’s just that it’s really far to walk.

-My online grocery store delivered the wrong Healthy Choice meal the other day and it really made me feel immature. Partly because I’m almost thirty-one and still regularly eat microwaveable dinners. But mostly because the meal was called a “Beef Steamer” and the sexual innuendo made me giggle.