A lot of people love punk because of the culture’s DIY ethos. Its ability to forge makers and creators, and to help people find and foster their own voices. I never made anything though; not a band or a song or a zine. I didn’t love it because it let me create. I loved it because it gave me the strength to exist.

For my 30th, a capital ‘M’ Milestone, I celebrated by making a bunch of my friends dress up in masks out in public at a Brooklyn bar. I sent out my 20s in a fit of ridiculousness, which is really the only way to handle these moments. It wasn’t my first big birthday, of course, and for me it’s hardly my most memorable.

Take, for instance, my 18th.

There are those that will jokingly make a religion of meat. The folks that will smirk and label themselves “meatatarian” when offered anything leafy and green. Much like the competitive eaters who gorge themselves for the sake of personal glory or prizes, the non-serious meat follower does not know the true depth of meat devotion.

For the truly devout; the true adherents of the meat arts there is Ribbadon.