Things I Learned Since I Turned 18.

At age 18, I learned that girlfriends and best friends can be fleeting. Especially when they have sex with each other behind your back and then lie about it to your face.

At age 19, I learned that as a male, my sexual peak was the year before. So much for that.

At 20, I learned that some divorces are good things.

At age 21, I discovered what it felt like to be lusted after by a woman 17 years my senior.

A l’age vingt-deux, j’ai m’apprendu j’adore les grandes bonnes femmes. I think I may have forgotten my French since then.

At 23, I learned what it felt like to almost lose a brother.

At age 24, I learned not to trust academic advisors.

At age 25, I realized that if I was lucky and lived to age 75, I was 33% dead.

At 26, I learned it’s not smart to have a relationship with your best friend’s sister. It’s also weird.

At 27, I learned there’s a lot of porn on the Internet. And it’s free.

At age 28, I learned it’s never a good idea to ask a friend you haven’t seen in a few years how his wife is doing. Especially when the answer is: “I wouldn’t know. After the death of our infant son, she left me and our daughter for another woman. She can burn in hell.” Unless, of course, you like awkward silences. Then ask away.

At age 29, I learned it’s never worth it to work for an asshole who is much dumber than you.

At age 30 I learned that just because you play the saxophone doesn’t mean you can play the bagpipes. Despite the fact they both have reeds and are woodwinds, they’re almost nothing alike. They are alike in that they’re both dumb things to buy off the Internet without playing them (and seeing if they work) first.

At 31, I didn’t learn a goddamn thing. I also forgot what I learned when I was 29.

At age 32, I had a bitch of a headache, so I drilled a hole in my skull. The Angry Piper sprang forth, fully-formed, and I learned that contrary to popular wisdom, some people do like a smartass.

At age 33, I came across this bit of wisdom from author Allegra Goodman: “If you want to write, or really create anything, you have to risk falling on your face. How much easier to sit back and snipe at the efforts of yourself and others. How sophisticated you can become, your own contribution unimpeachable, because it doesn’t exist.”

Or, in the words of Pat Walsh, “The number one reason why your book will never be published is that you haven’t written it.”

At age 33, consider the kick in the pants received.