So overwhelmed by the love, I couldn't find the appropriate words to express myself.
Shit, two days later, and I still can't accurately describe my feelings.
These last two days have been lovely... with a few downs, of course, since we ARE talking about me and nothing can ever go smoothly when it comes to ME.
Quite frankly, I'm relieved my birthday's over. It's always a little... uncomfortable to deal with so much attention. Don't get me wrong, I appreciate each and every person for taking the time to think of me for at least two seconds on March 1st, but I'd rather not be the focal point.
I'm now 27, and I must say, it feels "right." I've been claiming 27 for the last two years... I have no idea why, but I always had to correct myself and say my real age.
27. Yup. 27. That's right. Feels good. Hello, AnoMALIE. Twenty-seven.
I am 27, single, still a virgin (this has to be some sort of fucking record, seriously), unemployed (this whole thing with my folks is... well, hard to consider "employment" because I'm not using my brain... or even brawn, at all), and ZERO direction.
I eat, drink, and sleep the gym. I look forward to the gym... and oddly enough, the grocery store shopping trips for asparagus, lean protein, and berries. I'm a motherfucking hunter and gatherer all of a sudden. I just need to turn my room into an actual cave, and you could say I'm back to our ancestral ways... though I'm really fond of sports bras and tight-fit training capris (I've caved and purchased five of these. They are my fucking world... and now outnumber my jeans. I basically only wear jeans to church, and that's only because the guys who go to church are creepy old perverts. I don't work my lower-half to have those lazy bastards stare at it for an entire hour, pitching a tent instead of letting God into their heart. Dirty fuckers. Ok, enough of that rant), none of that naked shit-- not my style at all... even if I were chiseled, Greek-god-style.
Twenty-seven... gym loving, spandex-rocking, gatherer... with NO romantic prospects OR career goals... and I feel like I'm where I need to be.
Is that fucking crazy or what?
This girl no longer gives a flying fuck about... anything (well, besides that whole naked thing... I'd rather stab myself than be caught naked. I do it for humanity, people, humanity)... and she's ok with that.
 |
| D creeped around various family albums to create this collage for me. Collage of happy, smiley baby AnoMALIE. Damn near cried with this shit. |
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| Even my Wii got in on the action, with its... very particular way of "motivating" me... that asshole. |
These last two days have been lovely... with a few downs, of course, since we ARE talking about me and nothing can ever go smoothly when it comes to ME.
Quite frankly, I'm relieved my birthday's over. It's always a little... uncomfortable to deal with so much attention. Don't get me wrong, I appreciate each and every person for taking the time to think of me for at least two seconds on March 1st, but I'd rather not be the focal point.
I'm now 27, and I must say, it feels "right." I've been claiming 27 for the last two years... I have no idea why, but I always had to correct myself and say my real age.
27. Yup. 27. That's right. Feels good. Hello, AnoMALIE. Twenty-seven.
I am 27, single, still a virgin (this has to be some sort of fucking record, seriously), unemployed (this whole thing with my folks is... well, hard to consider "employment" because I'm not using my brain... or even brawn, at all), and ZERO direction.
I eat, drink, and sleep the gym. I look forward to the gym... and oddly enough, the grocery store shopping trips for asparagus, lean protein, and berries. I'm a motherfucking hunter and gatherer all of a sudden. I just need to turn my room into an actual cave, and you could say I'm back to our ancestral ways... though I'm really fond of sports bras and tight-fit training capris (I've caved and purchased five of these. They are my fucking world... and now outnumber my jeans. I basically only wear jeans to church, and that's only because the guys who go to church are creepy old perverts. I don't work my lower-half to have those lazy bastards stare at it for an entire hour, pitching a tent instead of letting God into their heart. Dirty fuckers. Ok, enough of that rant), none of that naked shit-- not my style at all... even if I were chiseled, Greek-god-style.
Twenty-seven... gym loving, spandex-rocking, gatherer... with NO romantic prospects OR career goals... and I feel like I'm where I need to be.
Is that fucking crazy or what?
This girl no longer gives a flying fuck about... anything (well, besides that whole naked thing... I'd rather stab myself than be caught naked. I do it for humanity, people, humanity)... and she's ok with that.
As I cut my cake, I made one wish. Unlike all the other times I've made wishes, when I'm an asshole and feel like ruining them, I am not going to divulge my wish. This time, I'm keeping it to myself... because this time... this ONE time... I want it to come true. I know it will come true.
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