#390: IF MY ANXIETY OR THE ENORMITY OF MY OWN HEAD DOESN'T KILL ME FIRST, I WILL HAVE A BIRTHDAY ONE MONTH FROM TODAY
Firstly, because I often have firstlies, I want to draw your attention to a conversation I had with the Fiery One earlier this year. It was about MY GINORMOUS HEAD. It made laugh and feel better about my head, which is really larger than quite a lot of your heads.
The Fiery One and I were curled up together on the couch, he with his Harper's and I (or is that me?) with my "Grey's Anatomy", when he turned to me and said You know, I think we look pretty good for people in their mid-thirties. I could have poked his eyes out with my knitting needles. As far as I am concerned, only one of us is in his mid-thirties, because I am thirty-two and not due for my birthday until December 29th. Thirty-two is early thirties, thank you very much, and I'm sticking to it for another thirty-one days. I wasn't in the least bit touchy about turning thirty, but entering the mid- to late-thirties phase, especially being inducted prematurely, bugs the piss out of me.
I am going to get some of this belly-aching out of the way now so that I don't have to torture you with it throughout the month of December:
Six is the friend who has been in between apartments and on your couch rent-free for three months and claims to have no money for groceries, six is the jerk who sold you an eighth of oregano in the park when you were fifteen and left you broke and ashamed sitting in your basement for two weeks, six is the schlepp that sits down at the neighbouring table while you are having coffee with friends and listens to your conversation in such a way that you know he is trying to make it seem like he is hanging out with you and is just waiting for an invitation to say something, an invitation which you will never extend.
That terrible run-on sentence was brought to you by my fifth weblog entry ever. I've come a long way, baby.
The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath, edited by Karen V. Kukil