It’s my birthday on Saturday. That’s 23 hours and 32 minutes, coincidentally, and I’ll be turning 23.
23 has always been my favourite number (way before that weird movie). It was one of my favourite songs as a kid (by Jimmy Eat World) as well. All my dreams used to revolve around it, and I used to obsessively look for (and as a result, see) it everywhere. Weird, right? Anyway, I naturally figured that I’d die at the age of 23.
I’m not at all superstitious, so I know it’s not true… But I’m just saying, that if I do die before my 24th birthday, I want you guys to know that I totally predicted it.
I very often picture myself getting shot, unusually enough, eight times. That is incredibly unlikely for obvious reasons, primarily being that England isn’t quite as trigger happy as our gun wielding comrades over in America, but again, I’m just saying, that if I get shot eight times before my 23rd birthday, I totally predicted it.