I am officially in my late twenties.
I swear, I was 22 like yesterday, man.
I always liked that my birthday was in May, even though I’ve never much cared for spring.
I don’t have “I should have done more by now” issues, because I’ve done most everything I wanted to have done by 27, except have my graduate work done, but that was a conscious choice, whether a good one or not. I have “now I’m closer to death” issues.
One time I got cracked in the head with a pinata stick on my ninth birthday. I haven’t gone out to a Mexican restaurant for my birthday since.
Happy Cinco de Mayo.
To reiterate: Taurus = Minotaur, not cow.
The make-up stand at the local drug store says that women 25+ need to be using anti-aging creme, so I have two years of product-deficit. This simulataneously inspires me to heights of corporate vandalism and depresses me deeply, as I imagine it’s meant to.
I have now been asked what kind of cake I want at least three times. I really don’t know. Cake is cake.
When my father was the age I am now, I was already 5 years old.
There is no Dana, only Zoul.
If you want to call and say Happy Birthday, my number is:
If time is an illusion, and lunchtime doubly so, how come all of a sudden I’m 27? Bah! Humbug.