If you mail my present tomorrow, it will get here the day after my birthday, on the 6th. My birthday is the 5th, and duh, my birthday is, as it should be, as it has usually been, a national holiday . My birthday party is the 10th and I am thinking yard party maybe again, since I have 80 oz left of the lawn-torch oil-fuel stuff left, but I am thinking, hey, why not bring my party to the dunes in Valparaiso, IN instead. I think, really, I have much more interest in eating oranges on the beach with some of my friends, rather than watching half strangers get real drunk. I might do both. Holler if you want to come to either, both, neither, whatever = 9/10 = it's on. This is a very very special birthday, as I will be turning 100 years old this year.
Granted: Every birthday is special, because, well, it was divine handiwork I made it past 18. Especially since the one picture I have of my 18th birthday still, kept only to remind me of miracle-luck, is my friend Ellen, slugging a Heineken, steering wheel in hand, driving my van down the 405 freeway, taken, by me, from the passenger seat. Ellen had to drive, as I was the one who had been given the cooler full of 40's a present. When you are a kid, you think you are indestructable, your body is like silly putty to you still, and life is bendable and not breakable, even if in the face of friends dying and ODing. It's never you, it's never going to happen to you, you think because you are stupid and young and that, essentially is your job description when you are young and stupid.
That's what I think about every year when I turn older. Whose fucking grace am I skating on that I am still on the earth, not dying, all limbs intact? When really, if we look at the timeline, if we look at the square rooted genealogy of stupid chances and the nineties in the entirety, there were times when 29 (not 100, wishful thinking) seemed like the unlikeliest of outcomes. But my back in the day friends, Cali, and Britt, we have this conversation everytime we hang out. I also think about how if I was my mom, how old would I be. When my mom was 29, I was six. Then I think about how did she possibly do it. I am busy, but like, self employed and sleeping in, and still so unresponsible-ish that I leave the window cracked open for the cat to come in and out--so she does not have to depend on me so much.
Anyhow. If you are wondering what to get me for my birthday, please draw me a picture or make me a tape, or, really, it is still pluot season. I also like rocks. I am an extra small in t-shirts. You could write me a special message on a thrift shirt with a pen or sharpie, on the inside, then draw a picture on it -- A picture of you and me riding a donkey! PO BOX 14624 CHICAGO IL 60614. Make sure to let me know when yr birthday is and I will totes get you back with something personal and special. Like a ceramic dog with no head.
Also, on the topic of giving, if you are mad broke-a-thon3000, and wondering about what you can do re: Hurricane help, keep in mind you can donate frequent flyer miles to Red Cross .Posted by Jessica at September 1, 2005 01:01 AM | TrackBack