There's a scene from an Anne Lamott novel, I think, in which a little boy is observed while crouching by a cat and whispering, "It's my birthday today." Taken out of context, that's usually me -- I kind of want people to recognize that it's my birthday, but I don't want a fuss. I hate being the center of attention -- social anxiety, wha ha -- but I want to be acknowledged, like, hey you do exist, and today's the anniversary of the day that it started!
Ok, I wrote that around 9:30am and spent the rest of the day organizing and filing and dusting items that have been sitting around for upwards of three years. So, happy birthday to me. But a coworker bought me a six-pack of Red Stripe and I've decided, even though Aaron's sick and on self-prescribed bedrest, fuck it. I'm going out. I'm 21 today and I deserve to have a little incoherent fun.
Also, I got a nice rash on both of my arms from the mold spores inhabiting aforementioned files. Ew.