05.25.00

It's that time again. My birthday is in two days. I'll be 26. I never feel anywhere close to my age unless something either happens to point it out (ie. going to a concert where the performers are 10 years younger than I am), or my age is about to change.

Of course, we're going to go see Kittie tonight. They're all 10 years younger than me. It figures.

Usually, I have to think about how old I am. If I had to sum it up, I'd probably say I feel about 17 lately; I have too much responsibility hanging over my head.

I hate this time of year. I hate being reminded that I'm another year older, and STILL haven't done anything important. (Not that I'm all that motivated; if I ever become great, it'll be because I literally fell into it, but still...)

I'm filled with childlike curiosity about what I'm going to get, adult mortification that I'm thinking like that, and a sinking feeling that I'm not going to get anything at all. And what things I do get will all either be things I already have, don't want, or are completely inappropriate. (I know this to be a wildly untrue statement on a conscious level, but underneath, it's there, pulsating and annoying the snot out of me.)

I really just want to go curl up until this is all over. I know, from years past, that I'll be a depressed little flake for the next few weeks, and in about 2 months, it'll be like it never happened. But I'm scheduled to be miserable for a while yet. I hate this.

If anything is worse than being miserable, it's the anticipation of being miserable.