I remember it far too vividly in fact. It was November 7th, 2000 and I was 21 years old, in college, and living in Philadelphia. I had driven the hour back to my hometown to vote against you, Mr. Bush, in the first presidential election I was eligible for. By the time I drove back to my disheveled artist apartment on the edge of North Philly Fox had already called the election and the rest is history.
I was 21.
Well, Mr. Bush, I turned 30 today.
I know you probably have more important things to think about than my birthday. After all, a LOT of people are a year older today and I'm neither Nobel laureate, politically relevant, or even locally famous. No, I'm just another guy who, when looking back at his "wild days as a twenty-something", will have them irrevocably attached to you.
This, I feel, is kind of a crime. To be fair, it ranks much lower on the list as compared to your more serious trespasses (unprovoked war, cronyism, profiteering, staggering ineptitude, using fear as a campaign strategy, and your general disregard for human rights, the Constitution, and international laws), but damn it, it's still a crime!
Now, I know I will never get those years back that you took from me. I just hope that someday, maybe in a next life (if you're into that kind of thing), you are forced to spend the prime of your days with a small dark rain cloud of idiocy that follows you around and just generally ruins shit whenever it can. This, to me, would be adequate retribution.
Anyway, I'm heading out. This New England snow storm is not going to dampen my plans to live it up today. Afterall, Mr. Bush, this is the last birthday we'll have to spend together and that calls for a celebration.