So it’s that time of year: my birthday.
Or, more exactly, it’s the two days before. But is that super necessary? I think it might be. I mean, I’m turning 22 years old–that’s a bunch of two’s. You have to enjoy that excessive two-ness.
Well, what do I have to say for myself? I don’t have any grand plans for my birthday; I’m actually driving for five and a half hours to go and see my mom (who wanted to be near “water and relaxation” for her own birthday. Since she’s a middle school teacher, I can get behind that sentimentality. All I deal with are PhD students that get miffed about book recalls and I need that kind of day), and then I might have lunch with a friend to gift her with the apartment keys so my cat can be fed.
Maybe I’m lucky that no one would be here for my birthday, since I’m not feeling celebratory. (I’m looking at you Memorial Day weekend BBQs. I really wish you were a less important holiday because, honestly, then my annoyance with you could be slightly more justified.) I’m feeling like a sorry mess and that’s never fun to be drunk with.
Who knows? Maybe I’ll get some Super Cool™ six-packs of Twisted Tea for my mom and me to drink near some water with her little dogs.
Update: My co-workers asked me how I felt, humming the song 22. I said “despair” and we all high-fived. I am, indeed, feeling 22. #confirmed