The older you get the more you realize just how grumpy forty somethings are. Sheesh, who invited them to the party? Perfectly fun thirty somethings are suddenly miserable to be around. They’re easy to spot: just say anything and they’ll complain about it. And complain. And complain. Anyway, if they don’t kill themselves or turn Republican they’ll get over it and twenty years later they’ll be looking at all the shit they no longer have to worry about, giggling like idiots. Actual idiocy is still a decade or so away.