Thursday, September 14, 2006

Now I'm Drownin' the Floo-hoo-hooood

T minus one day until I turn two dozen, which is an excellent number of bagels, but an unexciting number of years. It's not twenty-five. It's not twenty-one. It's not grown up, but it's most certainly not young, as I am reminded every Saturday night at MisShapes when some punk kid with Sparks tongue reminds me that they're still in high school.

For my twenty-fourth birthday, I have thus far received a loan. Being debt-free is so passe. The only way to move out of my shitterific neighborhood and get a new apartment was to politely ask Wachovia for use of a couple thousand dollars, a proposal they reluctantly accepted. We were married this morning via fax and the honeymoon will last for the next sixty blissful, penniless months. Rather than dwell on the absurd interest rate I was given due to my "lack of credit" or "some bullshit like that," I would like to think of this loan as a birthday present to my twenty-nine year old self, who will enjoy breaking even financially at midnight on September the 14th.

Even Godiva can't make a truffle that sweet.

I'll turn twenty-four tonight at Stolen Transmission, my favorite party of the week for many reasons, but not insignificantly because it gets darker inside the Annex by the week, which gives me the freedom to go out without doing things like washing my hair or face or putting on makeup or turning the shirt with the stain inside out.

I used to really believe that whatever you were doing the second you turned a new age (or the moment the ball lit up the numerals of a new year on Dick Clark's countdown) would determine the character of the next 365 days. I think I've written about this before, but on New Year's I would put on lipgloss, brush my hair, pop my favorite Bon Jovi ballad into my Walkman, and press play at precisely 12:00, pretty positive that my efforts would result in a year's worth of Sweet Valley caliber romance.

It's just now that I realize I could've been right in my thinking that these moment-long milestones could predict a year. Sitting in my parents' house in my pajamas wearing lip gloss and thinking about how cool it would be to make out with the guy advanced fucking algebra (I see your dorky and I raise you a TOTAL NERD) was, indeed, how I spent most of middle and high school.

It looks like I'll turn twenty-four in the basement of a bar so dark no one will notice the weird, basically impossible deodorant stain on the collar of my jacket. (It was early, I misfired.) It's nothing to write home about, but it could be a step in the right direction.


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