When I was a little kid - not quite as little as in the above pic, as I'm not sure one-year-olds have much grasp on this - I could never really picture being 25. It all seemed so far off and misty, something that would happen when people had hoverboards and drove flying cars. And of course by the time I was 25 I'd probably have a successful job and husband and a small brood of babies or something.
So I turn 25 finding myself single [and perfectly happy with it, to be honest], in a kerrrappy job [but have the opportunity to do some awesome freelance writing work] and no kids yet [phew]. Although an impending godchild awaits me in the UK which I'm so stoked about.
I remember mentally making a list of things I wanted to do before I was 25, and to do before I turned 30, and I can't really remember many of them apart from the fact that living in NY was always one of them. That, and the magazine business. So it gives me some small satisfaction that I can at least cross those off.
In general I really don't like my own birthday; the pressure to "do something" stresses me out - and this year it felt like it would be weird not having my sister around. But I received a rad care package containing two mix CDs and two Cadburys Creme Eggs from her [one of which I ate at like 6:30am whilst talking to her online. I've been feeling a little sick ever since] and a couple other packages and cards from the UK. My roommates, bless their cotton socks, gave me a card and cake this morning. And this evening there's the Ivy League show and Stolen Transmission with current faves, Boy Kill Boy. Now I just have to convince both bands to sing me Happy Birthday, mwahahaha. If only there was room for a small nap between work and class and shows and parties. Ah well, that's what the flask of vodka and can of Redbull in my bag are for, right?
Happy UnBirthday to all youuuuu.
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