My birthday wasn't as bad as I thought it would be. I had talked it down for so much, really expecting it to suck something fierce that when it turned out decent, it really seemed better.
For those of you who weren't around last year to hear me complain about my habit of sucky birthdays, well, I have a habit of sucky birthdays. Here's a checklist of what happened on my last five birthdays.
Got food poisoning? Check.
Major car accident? Check.
Came out to parents? Check.
Party cancelled at the last minute? Check.
Father in hospital? Check.
But my father's getting out of the hospital this morning, it looks like. And as long as he maintains a low-fiber, low-fat diet, he should be fine. It'll suck having him around the house all the time again, but hey! I'll be gone in like, 2 weeks.
No, there was no drunken debauchery, no midnight gropings with vodka oozing out all my orifices, no accidentally vomiting all over a trick, nothing like that. And because I am
(This post has nothing to do with the Smiths giving me a bouquet.)