On Birthdays

I turn 18 on Saturday.

This doesn't mean a lot except

• I'm officially an idiot for not having any ability/jurisdiction to operate an automobile
• I can tote around my passport in case I want to buy cigarettes or lottery tickets
• I can vote if I pull my shit together and read some Huffington Post
• Juvenile Detention is no longer an option
• I'm still 5'1"

I like birthdays. I like to make a week of them. They are special and important and should be commemorated with indulgences of every variety. I'm saddened that not every single one of my peers shares this (Sopranos voice) "kiss the ring" attitude about my forthcoming adulthood.

My last birthday sucked. But I think most of my birthday sucked. This one won't suck because I'm getting balloons and a shrimp platter. Because like most girls, food excites me similarly boys; yet these pleasures should be measured on different axis.

My lovelife is funny because I stopped taking things seriously. My seriousness is very flimsy already, and I should have taken care of it instead of tossing it out with 2012. All I know is that the last 5 boys I have "gotten with" (ugliest term for sharing saliva EVER) have told me "You're, like, the best kisser ever". Cha-ching. For my birthday I want the worst kisser in the world to bless me with their inability, in order to show me what naivete and innocence is like again.