I hate Birthdays. I've been 24 for a couple of hours and I've long been ready for this stupid day to be over. Not that anyone ever remembers anyway. My aunt, who shares the same birthday, has forgotten it almost every year. And 24 is such an unspectacular age.

Maybe I'll buy a bottle of cheap vodka and spend the day in a drunken stupor. Maybe I'll swim for hours until I'm all wrinkly and unrecognizable. Maybe I'll do both. Maybe I'll just walk someplace I've never been and just get lost. Anything to avoid just sitting here alone feeling sorry for myself.

I'm feeling misanthropic and petty. I want to beat up anyone who's ever had an absolutely fabulous birthday after they were old enough to skip parties at Chuck E. Cheese. I want to speed up time and get the day over with. I want to still be 23.

Hopefully, by this time tomorrow, I will have survived with my sanity intact, and the good mood I've had all week returned. But for now, I'm going to wear black and read Anne Sexton poems and sit in the dark and wish that I had the sort of birthday people have in family movies.