And what was this package, you ask? Well, my gentle snowflakes, it was a kind gift from the Irreverend Mr Ker on the occasion of my upcoming 30th birthday. Since I am not allowed to open the package until my dies natalis, August 29, I’m afraid that I cannot yet comment on the excellencies of this much-appreciated lingagift; I can tell you, however, that receiving it brought home with particular force that I am less than a week and a half away from the end of my 20s. O woe! O sorrow! Alas, true indeed are the words of the Psalmist:
“The days of a mortal are as grass;
he blossoms like a wild flower in the meadow:
a wind passes over him, and he is gone,
and his place knows him no more.”
(Psalm 103:15-16, REB)
I can sense, O reader, your earnest sympathy for my birthday predicament, and I thank you for it. “But surely,” you say, “there is something that I can do, isn’t there, which will help soothe your exceeding great grief!” And as a matter of fact, there is. I was formerly loath to speak of such things in public, but I have been persuaded by my friend and confidant Nick Norelli to overcome my reservations and speak boldly. It is, then, with parrēsia that I share with you all the indubitable cure for my heart’s sorrows:
Yes, dear ones: it is there that you can find a smooth balm (or two) for my grieving heart, and a sure way to concretize your laudable altruistic yearnings. Once again, I’m deeply grateful to your tender heart for your interest in my wretched plight. And remember: O woe! O sorrow!