Happy Birthday to Me
Well, now that I'm twenty-seven I'm officially in my late 20s. The Red Baron, Manfred von Richthofen, was already dead and immortalized by the time he was my age. And we all know the late 20s are just a gateway to thirty. And once you're thirty, you're what will seem like two weeks away from being forty, at which point you are well on the path to becoming a soul-sucking abomination, a.k.a. a senior citizen. (I only hate old people because they are terrible.) Before the Mountain overreacts, I know my life isn't over at twenty-seven (this isn't Logan's Run, thank Bog [on many different levels]), but now that I'm on the doorstep of being thirty there is a certain urgency to getting my arse in gear. If I am to strike down my enemies, if they are to rue the day they aroused my ire, I need to get to work. No more mucking about in the fool's paradise of youth.

Though the thing about a fool's paradise is that until the very last moment that it all comes crashing down about your ears, my friend, you've been living in paradise. And who doesn't like paradise?

I am not particularly fond of Wolverine, but now that he has two ongoing monthly books - Wolverine and Wolverine: Origins - it would be such a shame if Marvel never published a story titled "Logan's Run."