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Hello, Barbeloids, how are you?
Twenty-one years ago I played a practical joke by playing hide and seek inside my mother. It took nine months and a team of doctors to get me out.
To commemorate this occasion I have gorged myself on chicken and cheesecake and a gratuitous amount of alchohol with my parents. However, much like the ground crew for Challenger this is only paving the way for Saturday when I am destined to crash and burn with several of my friends and co-workers in full view of the public.
Right now I am snuggled in my warm, refurbished room (one half of my birthday gift) enjoying the last bottle of Buddenweiser.
As an aside, I got a card which says 'Congratulations'. I can't see anything I've done being particularly handshake worthy. It's like 'yay! you made it this far!'. Well, yes, it wasn't that hard. I just avoided cars and the shifty-eyed as much as possible.
Yesterday was supposed to be the day the resolution died. I made none, thus sticking with my pre-birth resolution not to make any resolutions. Resolutely. Strangely melancholy about that: I have plans, nebulous plans to be fair which I'm working towards but 21 is now here, after years of it being so distant. And nothing. No shift in focus or direction. Just a slightly numbing sameness about me. Possibly one too many Bugenhausers? Perhaps.
Barbelith. Today is my birthday, and besides the customary 21 asscandlings, I demand Le Huggles. Be gentle in both respects. |
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