Today marks two things. One, the date of my birth, and two, the day I completely stop giving one flying rat's ass about it. I'm 32, and that is apparently the year that nothing happens and few remember. Like 16 Candles, multiplied by 2 and minus Jake Ryan. The day began with wanton abandonment via the fiance, involved a mystery trip to my house by my parents that I was not even aware happened, some well wishers on facebook, and a trip to Olive Garden (grilled toscana chicken. Good stuff.)
So now I'm stuffed, sad, and swearing off birthdays. Unless you live near people you like/see regularly, have money, or are turning 1/10/16/18/21, birthdays are a crock, a sham, and I want no part of it. It's my party, and I'll wallow in misery if I want to. Minus the party. Pardon my self pity (it's possible I'm too old to feel this way; it's actuality that I don't care), but i'm going to be sad for a bit. It's also still foreign to me to not get a call from my grandma. So, allow me my meltdown and I should be good sometime around the time time travel is perfected.
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