I thought to myself that whenenever I go past 25 – that’s it – people are no longer going to want me. Twenty-five is like reaching the zenith of your nubility and being anything past it is um, a pariah.

See those signs at bars? WANTED GIRLS 18-25. If they fish around for my ID, they’d realize that I’m just a few days past 25 years old and shoo me away. The horror.

Of course, that would perhaps be the shallowest thing I could think of. (Shut up, it’s my birthday, I’m shallow-authorized) Just because bars no longer wanted to employ women – bah.

I haven’t met anyone who hasn’t been that emotional on his or her birthday and emotion is something I might have to parlay with a month’s salary if I ever get to run out of it. Overdose, mind you. Too much estrogen kills you.

“You’re still in your 20s, what are you whining about?” A friend asked me.

“I whine about everything.” I told her. “I’m allowed to whine today because it’s my day.”

Granted.

I whined because there is nothing to whine about anymore.

Happy birthday to me.

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