Somewhere in a gumbo of Gran Turino, Yes Man and Seven Pounds, I have swum into another calendar year.
It's an odd-numbered one. Which tend to be pretty good to me.
And it features a 33rd birthday for this definitively trepid blogger.
33 was good for Thomas Jefferson. He was that old when he wrote the Declaration of Independence.
33 was (you could argue) good for a guy named Jesus. He rose from the dead at that age. (After he was brutally killed, of course. But let's focus on the good part.)
I'm not entirely sure what direction I'm headed in. But the gumbo tastes interesting right now.