Denial and Other Rivers in Egypt

Today is my birthday. No, no, no, don't say "great!" or "yay!", or "Maybe I should send her some money?" Well maybe the money thing, but please, do not cheer. I am in complete and utter denial about being 32 years old and therefore will NOT admit nor participate in any birthday shenanigans (unless they, of course, involve large amounts of cash and/or cake and ice cream with pickles, preferably in that order).

I cannot believe I am 32 years old. I mean, it was yesterday that I was frantically holding my tape recorder up to my stereo to try and record "Axel F" when it came on the radio. And when I did get to record it, since my stereo didn't have an internal recorder, half the song you can hear my mother in the background yelling at me to clean my room. I was cool then! It was the 80s! Check out THOSE stylin' boots. I was pretty rad for a 10 year old.

I can also distinctly remember being that bitchy 14 year old teenager and driving my poor mother crazy while torturing my brother at the same time. Back then, judging from the picture, I was mainly concerned about the best way to scowl and how big and tacky my earrings could get. Posing for a picture was, quite obviously, worse than any torture the Spanish Inquisition could have ever imagined, and my entire family were dorks for trying to commemorate such a occasion. Weren't the teen years great?

Or maybe I could go back to being 21? My 21st year was awesome. I was finally finding myself and who I was and I was going through my industrial/lesbian looking phase, to which I can only attribute to the fact that this was also the time in my life where "no" was not part of my vocabulary. If it was any sorts of illegal or alcoholic, I would say "yes please" and then wake up a few days later not remembering that I spent the night on the floor at Wetlands after a Skinny Puppy show. It was also that time where I looked like the poster girl for Lesbians are Us. I am surprised that I had male sexual partners. Even now, when I look at this, I'm like "who's the dyke?" But 21 was great! Saw so many great shows in the city. It was the heyday of the industrial scene and everyone and everything in NYC was incredible. Can I be 21?

I guess there is no use complaining. I don't think I am asking for much. Maybe I can be 24 again? All cute and slim. I mean, I was so adorable, strange dogs would rest their heads on my shoulder and fall into peaceful and restful sleep. These days dogs just bark and me as though they are saying "Hey old lady! Hey old lady!"

Well, Happy NOT Birthday-unless-you-have-cash-and-cake to me. I refuse to be 32. Today I am celebrating the 11th year of my 21st birthday and we will leave it at that.