I’m one of those people who treat their birthday like their damn wedding day. Every year I coordinate every little detail to make it the best f***ing day of my life. I seem to expect the entire human population to stop and bow down at my feet just because today happens to be the day I decided I’d had enough of the claustrophobia and shot out of my mom in the middle of Easter mass (to be clear, my mom’s water broken during church, I was not actually born in a church pew while a choir of 90 year olds screeched “Ave Maria”). This attitude does not mesh well with the annoying things the world does as you get older to remind you your birthday means less than nothing to every other creature on earth. Except your mom. Who only remembers it because you can’t erase that extreme amount of pain and gore from your memory, no matter how hard you try. And maybe your coworkers, if you’re one of the rare breed of humans who bring in pie and cookies for everyone else on their own birthday (these are the best kind of people). Even so, I went to sleep Sunday night drunk on whiskey and Malibu, dreams of yoga pants and French macarons* dancing in my head.

These dreams were ultimately sliced apart this morning by my machete-wielding (not really, she’s super nice) boss who called asking me to come into work to cover my allergy-stricken coworker. After my double shift I will probably be too tired to even put on the yoga pants, let alone thaw out the box of macaroons. This may even be worse than my 18^th birthday, when I had to spend the night taking a 4 hour astronomy exam, which I’m pretty sure I ended up failing. I get it world, I need to get my shit together and be a grown ass adult. Next year, I’m going to use my grown ass adult PTO to be far away from here, so I can chill by a lake somewhere with my yoga pants and macarons for 24 hours of bliss. Take that, world!

All right, I need to go smile at a bunch of people and do a bunch of stuff with books and cry a bunch inside. Until next time, folks.

*The frozen kind from Trader Joe’s, obviously. If I actually tried to bake those myself I’d end up with a bunch of turd-like clumps and my kitchen burned to the ground.