So tomorrow's my 30th birthday. I'm posting this via email or I'd direct
you to my birthday post from LAST year, the 29th birthday. You can probably
find it, what with the timing of birthdays being constant and all. Please
note the self-involved, devil-may-care, "remember when you threw a $19
martini in my face to slap me out of that three day Vegas bender?"
attitude. Please compare the amount of time I allotted to squatting in the
bathroom sink evaluating my neck skin in the mirror (0% of the time)
compared to the amount of time I allotted to being awesome (all the % of
the time). Even when I sort of forgot which day was my birthday, it was
forgivable thanks to the inherent awesomeness of 29. I'm pretty sure that
kind of lazy brain slacker atrophy doesn't fly at thirty. Now I'm just a
dumbass. A thirty-year-old dumbass with her legs crumpled in the sink
staring at her pores, getting her days wrong and shit. Not going on any benders.
So how am I going to celebrate, you ask? Well, I think I'll start the day
by getting my cholesterol checked... it's been a bit high lately, so let's
see if maybe that's come down, oh, forty points. Last night's cheeseburger
and cabernet agree that no. It hasn't. Maybe it will have gone up another
twenty points and I'll get to take enormous clear yellow old people pills
every day! And I can put them in a plastic daily pill organizer and take
them with my tar pitch coffee when I get up at 3:30 every morning to watch
the birds and squirrels and shit. I can have breakfast at like 4 and lunch
around 10:30 and supper can be at 3:15 and then I CAN WATCH THE EVENING
NEWS AND CALL IT A DAY.
I have to go. Store #87 needs me to send them some paperclips, and apparently it's really, really important.
