You gotta know when to hold 'em, know when to fold 'em

After close consideration, it would appear that I'm starting to freak out about turning 30. Just a little.

Granted, I don't turn 30 for another seven months. I feel good about it for the most part. My 20s have pretty much sucked, so I'm assuming my 30s will be better. Plus, I'll just be a damn good 30-something. I know I will. That said, I'm now on a race against time to get all of my shit together in the career love financial sanity departments so I can start the new decade off on the right foot. This means I have seven months to figure out what I want to do with my life get my insecurities in check which will enable me to have a functional relationship get the hell out of debt and stop being so damn self-destructive. And I'm supposed to do all that while the little clown on my shoulder (clowns are more evil than devils - trust me) tries to thwart my growth by saying things like…

Let's get a tattoo!

Don't you miss the nose ring? Shouldn't we get it repierced?

That really young rocker boy is cute!

Oooh, that was a rather mean thought. You should totally text that to the ex!

Drink…more…wine…Smoke…more…cigarettes…Eat…McDonald's…

The rationale the Sensible Me has for doing all these things before 30 is also the rationale used by Evil Clown Jess. Come on, you're turning 30. This is your last chance to do all this stuff. Perhaps I should stop seeing 30 as a beginning or an end, but just as a number that will fall somewhere on the natural timeline of my maturity. With seven months to go, however, methinks the internal struggle freaking out fucking up making strides is only just beginning.