Im back. . .

Dear gentle readers,

I apologize for my extended absence; “Birthday Week” turned into “Birthday Month,” which then turned into “Birthday Season,” and the alcohol is just starting to make its way out of my system. I can't tell you just how much it sucks to awake from a 3 month-long booze daze only to realize that you're 30, jobless, and somewhere in the backwoods of the deep, deep South. My plan was to keep drinking forever. . . If I never sobered up, the reality of no longer being a twenty-something might never set it. But in hindsight, that was a terrible plan. To be honest, I barely made it through three days of drinking. Why? Because I'm old as shit now.

So here I am. A little bit older, a little bit wiser, and a little bit closer to having a complete fucking breakdown. 30. THIRTY. In honor of this wretched occasion, I've compiled a list of why I hated turning the big twenty-ten.

1. I've accomplished pretty much nothing in my 30 years. Like, literally, nothing. I think I may have turned a few ex-boyfriends gay, but that's all I've got. 
   
   
2. I am officially the creepy cougar at my old college bar. This was a hard one to swallow (Haha. That's what she said!). It wouldn't be so bad if I were the type of cougar that all the 21-year-old college boys were intrigued by, but this is not the case. The only looks I'm getting are the “What the eff is this old broad doing in this bar?” kind. And those are just no fun at all.
   
   
3. For the last year, I've been under the impression that I could still pass for 23. Not because I'm full of myself, but because people tell me this all the time when I get carded. Unfortunately, I wasn't paying much attention to exactly who was feeding me this bs. Of course I look 23 to a seventy-year-old. But to an actual 23-year-old, I might as well be their mother. To counter the depression I feel when someone actually guesses me as 30, I've started lying UP about my age. Example: Person: “How old are you?” Me: “thirty-seven.” Person: “Wow! You look amazing for being almost 40!” Me: “I know, right?” 
   
   
4. My younger sister is about to graduate from Berkeley and get married. My diploma count: Zero. Number of people lining up to marry me: One. But he's about 50 and was recently released from some sort of mental institution, so we're going to go ahead and not count him. The only thing I've got on her is the number of creepy stalkers that I've had, and in her defense, I kind of egged them all on. Attention whore, remember? Yeah, it's probably going to get me killed one day, I know. 
   
   
   So, there ya go.  
   And just so you know, I've missed a million blog-worthy moments in my absence.  But they're coming, folks, they're coming.