I will publish a book by the time I'm 30.
April, June, September, November.
Breasts or chests and an empty stomach lying on their side.
At age 30 my mother gave birth to me. Of five children, I’m the middle. Her favorite.
The oldest son of my generation. I chose to not have offspring.
I turned 30 on November 26, 2001. New York City still smelled of ash.
An omen of blackbirds roosting on electrical wire.
For the very first time I fell in love with a man.
Every morning I count the almonds I drop in my oatmeal.
There are 30 hours in a day, minus six, which I could totally use.
Taylor Swift sings of young abandon in “22” (ooh-ooh). That I abandoned.
I detest the rock band Thirty Seconds to Mars despite not having heard their music. Leto is
forever Catalano to me.
Space Station Expedition 30 Soyuz Capsule landed in Kazakhstan. A friend adopted a
cherubic boy from a Kazakhstan orphanage. Renamed him Julien. He now resembles his
My sole brother’s birthday is May 30. I often fail him.
Forgiveness has proven to be the hardest lesson.
Fifteen is halfway there. There is halfway to sixty.
Adulthood prances nowhere near a New Yorker in his 30s.
If I run on a treadmill for 30 minutes, I’ll burn a cupcake. Or two.
I met a lion-maned sorceress, wearing a glittery sweater. We ate dim sum. Went on
The last TV show I regarded as religion was “30 Rock.”
In many parts of the world 30 chickens constitute wealth.
Zero Dark Thirty is military slang for the unspecified time in the early morning hours before
“–30–” was the title of the final episode of the final season of “The Wire.”
In The Seasons of a Man’s Life, psychologist Daniel J. Levinson defines “The Dream”—youth,
illusion, inspiration, omnipotence, heroic drama—and how it needs to be modulated during
the transition period (28-33) of early adulthood. For survival.
I aged out of “30 Under 30.”
At the end of a press release, the end of a story.
In a clearing, a sawed-off tree. I count its rings. History.
“–30–” was a telegraphic shorthand to “end transmission” in the American Civil War.
My roommate and I rushed to our Manhattan rooftop and saw a tower downtown crumble
into smoke and nothing.
When my knee inadvertently touched his at a poetry reading, he moved not a muscle.
Eyes inward, moan arising from the throat.about the author