thirty-fucking-two

So I turned 32 today. OJ Simpson birthday. Magic Johnson. Carl Monroe (that jerrycurl muthafucka who used to play for the niners and caught the first touchdown in superbowl 19 against the dolphins and who was later found dead in a motel room of an overdose? Yep, the one and only)
What does 32 mean?
What does it mean? One thing I notice is that the more I use, the less capable I am of putting together my writings because my mind can't track. it seems when I am sober that the ideas just can't stop coming (and it feels so goddamn good. All I ever wanted to do was be prolific, to just write. It feels sooooooooo good to run my fingers across a keyboard as fast as I can thing and see what spills out the other end. I've spent too much time clogged up, but no more. I just don't feel that way. I can write like a muthafucka and it feels soooooo good to feel that about myself. It feels so good to tell people that I self-identify as a writer first and foremost, that the teaching of writing is just part of a larger consciousness that I am holding for myself).
These past few years have been, in many ways, exactly what my writing needed. I wonder what would have happened had I gone down an MFA or MA Creative writing path....I'm sure I would have gotten a lot out of it. But I feel like I got this wonderful cognitive piece that my brain absolutely thrived on. It was a piece of the picture that I may not have received in CW because the emphasis would have been different, however slight.
Also, the having to teach writing has given me insights into what writing is for me. It's no wonder that I feel so freed up about it. I've had so much time to really work through and overcome a lot of what stood in my way.