For the third year in a row I've turned almost 30.
I woke up today in my big bed feeling pathetic and melancholy for no good reason. It's not that I think that 28 is old, or that I wish I were 19 again. I don't miss Kamikazes by the pitcher, or black-lit bars (or more specifically, throwing up on the dance floors of black-lit bars). Maybe I just figured that I would know more by now. Maybe I thought that my boyfriend could stop watching the World Cup long enough to go out to the movies. Damn you, Ronaldinho and your enthralling curly locks!
Here I am, feeling sorry for myself in a way that only the truly comfortable can. You know, never gone hungry, never huddled in a cellar during an air raid (well, not yet)...basically lived a cushy life. My complaints are frivolous, and I accept that.
What's left to do? Crouch in a dark room singing "It's My Party" in a half-moan? Put on something with some slink, go out for drinks, and strut my stuff? (Must remember to get stuff to strut.) Run to Target to find a frame for the black velvet Elvis birthday card that I got from my roommate?
Wait just one minute. I got a freaking velvet Elvis birthday card! My life is fantastic. Off to strut now...