When I was younger, I wasn't sure I would make it here. Life seems so uncertain when it is measured in single digits. But tomorrow I turn 27. And nothing will be the same again--or will it?

Back when I was learning mathematics (or maybe just how to count), I figured out how old I would be when the world hit the good old "aught aught," or Y2K to you hipsters. And I realized I'd be 27. So it's been on my mind for a while.

27 is a lot. When my parents were 27, they had two kids with another destined to come within a year. We lived in Salina, Kansas. My favorite place to be was either in bed or the sandbox. I was still discovering that Contact medicine didn't taste too good, even though that half clear capsule with yellow and red balls looked a hell of a lot like candy.

I don't have to deal with a curious three-year-old, or a precocious five-year-old. I don't have to worry about black widows in the sandbox. I don't have to worry if I'm making enough money to have another kid. I just have to deal with myself and family and friends and co-workers and all those people who call and ask, "Is this Lies Magazine?"

So by the time most of you read this, the threshold will be breached. I will be in full pre-millennium flower. I will be 27.

When I was in my late teens, I found something else out about the age, 27. A lot of rock stars died when they were 27. Jim Morrison. Jimi Hendrix. Janis Joplin. Some more with J's in their name. And, while I was paying attention, Kurt Cobain.

I remember (because I was always trying to glean how to live life through a rock star's eyes) an article about Axl Rose discussing the 27th year. He talked about speaking to Prince (before he was named anything else) and being given the following tidbit of info--27 is the hardest year.

So the ominous nature of this age has stuck with me for a while.

And maybe there is a bit of truth to this rumor about 27. I've been struggling (well, sorta) with the break from post-adolescence into adulthood as of late. That time where "priorities" is the code word for "this is what is really important in my life." The break from all things childish into all things meaningful. That magical time when quitting a job because it sucks just isn't a good reason anymore. There are bills to pay, people to meet, and most importantly, money to spend. My money. And suddenly being an adult doesn't look so spiffy anymore.

Maybe I can milk this outer child for another year. Blame it on the coming nuptials of the 1900s and the 2000s. Blame it on an unusually warm winter in New Mexico. Blame it on the last 10 years of adolescent repeat. Blame it on punk rock. Or just blame myself and get on with it.

So maybe 27 will be a replay of the same kind of irrepressible idiocy I've been conducting for a while. Not that I'll make the same mistakes, but I'm sure I'll repeat a few of them. I still haven't mastered the art of loving my job. But, even in the dark days when it seems as if I haven't gotten any sleep, I find myself thinking it's not so bad. Then I have to slap myself again--but the thought was there, wasn't it?

And it's not like most 27-ites have it all together anyway. I know almost-40-year olds who still pass out drunk on floors. And that can't be very adult-like, can it? Adults are probably the most childish people on the planet, mostly because they don't actually think they're being childish when they bitch and moan, grab the goodies and guzzle down whatever's in the punch bowl.

Just look at the kids in Washington. They can't even decide whether oral pleasure is sex or not. I've got the definition I was given way back when all things sexual were defined clearly: 1st base--kissing. 2nd base--touching the breast. 3rd base--touching inside the pants. Home run--going all the way.

For those not clear, a home run equals actual sex.

So fuck it, I'll still be a kid if everyone else is going to run around whispering with glee, "I heard Jack and Katie are sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G," like it's some kind of national emergency.

And besides, today is the Super Bowl. I've got to go clean out the beerbong.

Matt Worley was born in Washington, D.C. on February 1, 1972 after very little labor. It was snowing.