I’m feeling pretty awesome today, on the eve of my 26th birthday.
25 was a good year. It made me tough. On my 25th Birthday last year, I moved into my apartment. My first apartment with out a million room mates and furniture made out of mil crates.
And since it was the first one that was all mine, I painted the walls mint green, and took home every stray dog I came across.
I started dating again, even though I thought I never would. I went on a bunch of them, and stayed with none of them. I ran out the back door of bars when I didnt like the looks they gave me, and went home to drink alone.
I quit smoking and started again, and quit, and then started again, and then quit again.
I did not go back to him, because he wasnt it for me anymore. He had been gone to long, and I had finally come down off of him.
I went to the dentist for the first time since high school. I was always afraid they’d take my teeth (they wont, just go)
I made my dog and I the center of the the universe.
I even got to fall in love again.
I started drawing again. I performed stand up, once, twice, a dozen times this year.
Goodbye and thank-you 25, I needed you more than I knew