Sunday, November 18, 2012

The Day Which Shall Not Be Named

Confession: I hate my birthday.  No, its not because I'm worried about getting older.  You are so freakin' vain. Here you sit worrying about a few gray hairs, and I'm expecting my entire existence to fall into the crapper. Listen, historically, December 11th as been a bad day for me, so much so, that this year, I'm taking an OCD page out of Jenny Lawson's book and renaming my 30th the Day Which Shall Not Be Named.  That's right, People!  There is NO December 11th.  You had plans that day?  Well, too damn bad. Forget em'!  And don't tell me I'm being melodramatic here. I spent my last B-day in the fetal position.  No, really, I have witnesses.  After sobbing over a plate of delicious, mostly untouched blueberry pancakes, I'm still afraid to go to Bloomington's Runcible Spoon. No one wants to see that...not to mention, I worry the place is cursed or something.  Seriously, Guys, all kidding aside, I'm terrified.  From here on out, I do NOT have a birthday.  No day shall be celebrated or remembered (well, it rarely has been so no loss there) to mark my entrance into this world and I expect the same will be said for my exit.

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