The Daily Aztec

It was the spring of 1999 when I realized my mother was gangster.

Saturday is my birthday. 28. F—. Another year — poof! Velcro Nikes and Bingo Nights here I come! And you damn kids better offer me your seat on the trolley!

Next year I’m staying home for Christmas and ordering Chinese.

I have a life. I swear. I’m not home at 9 p.m. on a Friday writing this. OK, I am, but I have my reasons (practice with The San Diego Rowing Club early the next morning, and the “Get Matt Doran Drizzy Foundation” is financially strapped as of late).

What’s not to like: flirtatious waitresses in fishnets, sultry live music, spacious leather booths and cocktails called Kentucky Tramp and another that makes an obvious gonorrhea reference?

As he battles frenzied birds and an existential crisis, Matt Doran finds himself confronted with his future and its implications, insomuch as a hungover 27-year-old can grasp.

Picture this: It’s 6:48 on a Sunday morning and I’ve only been home a few hours after being out in Pacific Beach (don’t judge me – it was for a birthday party).

This column is for anyone who has ever had their heart ripped out of their body, not just by tribal leader Mola Ram in an elaborate ritual, but by the person they love.

SDSU walkways, halls and locker rooms (never libraries) remain studded with what Matt Doran can only assume is the alien race Bro.

Matt Doran returns to the Daily Aztec with a backpage column sure to impress.

Dear Seniors: For the last six years, I have done anything but put my college degree to good use, or any use.

So you’re graduating. That’s great, but what have you actually done for the past few years in college?