Oh no, the big three-- BARF

I have made it to the ripe old age of thirty. Against all odds, I have survived.

I've done things that are dumb. I have done things that are dangerous. I have traveled to multiple countries on three continents, all the while eating indigenous food from street vendors of questionable pedigree. I have jumped off of roofs, regularly engaged in shootouts with air rifles, and dated a Puerto Rican girl (that may not sound dangerous, but listen to me very carefully: it is). I habitually drive over the speed limit, I have actually been present for a real life drug deal, and I am currently engaged to a (beautiful) lawyer (who might be reading this. Love you, honey).

So when the time came to sum up the achievements of these last thirty years, to celebrate in a way that says (in a British accent), "You've done it, old chap. By Jove, you've actually done it. Jolly good show," what did I decide to do? I drank enough Tuaca to drown a shetland pony and subsequently puked my brains out. Of course.

And you thought all the danger and stupidity was behind me.