Mood:
don't askNow Playing: "Perfect Blue Buildings", Counting Crows
So much for hitting 100 entries by Friday.
The only reason I wanted to reach 100 by Friday was that Friday is my birthday, and I thought I should accomplish SOMETHING. You know, the little things.
I know, I know, everybody's going to jump on my ass and say "Queenie, you're only going to be 25, what the FAHK are you kvetching about?"
I can explain. Or, at least, try. This is one of those windows into my neuroses, and it's kind of hard to explain exactly WHY I am the way I am to the sparkly-clean masses. Did I mention that your breath smells fabulous too?
Anyhoo. Here's how I look at it"
At 15: Shit man, you can get a driver's permit! You can drive to the mall (in daylight hours before midnight) with your friends! (as long as your mom's in the passenger seat)
At 16: You can drive a car, and you might even get one. If not, you can now get a job to pay for the car you didn't get but always deep down inside thought you deserved for even LIVING to 16.
At 18: You can vote! You can buy cigarettes! You're a legal adult! You can vote about being a legal adult having the right to buy cigarettes! And if you have that car already, you can move out if you feel the need, but you probably won't because you have no idea what an adult does yet.
At 21: You can drink! You can get into a bar and act silly like the other people you know you hang out with that bought you booze before you were 21! Officially, you can do everything all the other grown-ups of the world do, including paying those bills you ran up while living at home ALL BY YOURSELF because your parents think you're old enough to take care of yourself.
But what happens after that? Oh yeah, you start getting less and less of the incentives that made you want to get older, thus making it harder and harder to look forward to getting on in years.
At 25: OOOOH! Your car insurance rates can go down!
At 30: If you're female, you want to have a baby. Or, that's what I've been told. Of course, I've also been told that at 30 your sex drive goes through the roof and I think THAT'S a crock of shit.
And then it just s-t-r-e-t-c-h-e-s out until there's nothing left.
At 40: Dear god, you're over the hill! You get a party with lots of funereal jokes and black stuff proclaiming that you are just THATMUCH closer to dying.
At 68: You are eligible for social security checks. Woot woot.
Personally, I think that having birthdays stops being cool the first time you tell your parents that instead of having a swank daytime party with all the trimmings you'd rather have a SLUMBER PARTY. Once your buddies spend the night instead of go home with a goodie bag, it's all down hill.
Of course, that's not why I dread my birthday, that's just my line of thought. And believe me, it may sound like I've put a lot of thought into this straightforward dread, but that's not true. I'm just relying on experience. I get depressed around this time of year because the last ten years I have not had a decent birthday. Well, it may SOUND decent, but it's not.
13th b-day: I was in New Mexico, watching a HUGE rainstorm move across the desert, effectively putting the proverbial kibosh on any plans my 13 year-old self might have had planned. Did I mention I lived in California at the time?
14th b-day: I was in Las Vegas, BEFORE they erected Treasure Island, and was too young to do a damn thing. My parents tried to compensate by driving 14 hours STRAIGHT to Disneyland, but by that time I was too tired and drained to do anything anyway. Did I mention I STILL lived in California at the time?
15th b-day: Honestly, I can't remember this one, so maybe it was a good one. But then again, maybe I just blocked it from my memory because it sucked so much.
16th b-day: I was in the Okanagan Valley of Osoyoos, British Columbia, getting a third degree sunburn so that I couldn't move. Still lived in California, have NO idea what provoked my parents to head to Canada.
17th b-day: Had dinner with my parents because my friends forgot it was my birthday. Where the hell WERE all my friends, anyway?
18th b-day: I got dumped unceremoniously on my ass by my first major relationship. Seriously. A year and a half of dating, six months of sex, and the fucker's actually been cheating on me for six months with some little 98 pound-wet-with-all-her-clothes-on bitch. He subsequently stole all my friends from me and left me to suffer a miscarriage alone three months later. Happy birthday to me....
19th b-day: Had dinner with my parents because all my friends are out partying with my ex and his new girlfriend/fiancee. I am now officially pathetic.
20th b-day: I'm in the Navy, and i spend my supposedly special day in a hotel room somewhere in Florida, huddled up under the sink because the Marines have taken over the bed and the rest of the guys are running a train on some drunk girl in the next room. Where the fuck's my cake, at LEAST?
21st b-day: A 'friend' of mine decides to throw a party for me with 'just us girls'. I assume this means just us FRIENDS, but she invites the whole list of squadron females, many of which I can't stand just because they're female. She also decorates her whole one-bedroom apartment in SMILEY FACES. We show up, she tells us to 1) take off our shoes in her apartment and 2) no smoking in the house. We all smoked, so the whole party was crammed in a six by six porch. FUN. We left shortly thereafter before the Pictionary started, and, well, Memoirs of an (almost) famous rock groupie happened. Still, no fun.
22nd b-day: I hid, and the party monsters still found me. I got dragged to a bar, and they made an ass out of me by trying to pimp me out to EVERY available guy there, and some of the non-available ones too. SUCH fun. Can't you just give me presents and take me out for pizza or a movie or something? PLEASE?
23rd b-day: I was fucking working. The guys threatened to beat my ass on my birthday, so I couldn't tell anyone in fear of my life. FEAR OF MY LIFE. HAR. HAR. HAR. FUNNY.
24th b-day: I was on the road for nine hours, beginning my road trip to Destiny. The BBF bought me a pack of smokes with a heart on it. Finally, a birthday that ALMOST had some spark in it. ALMOST.
You see? I am cursed. CURSED. BAD JOOJOO, people. I dread Friday.
At least I'll be alone all day, so I can pull the covers over my head and bemoan the fact that I am indeed cursed, and one year closer to dying.
Aren't I just a HUGE bundle of fucking sunshine today?
Rattled Out By Queenie
at 3:31 AM
