My 25th birthday is tomorrow. Twenty-four has kind of sucked ass, but whatever. It's hours away from being over. Twenty-five will be better. I can finally rent a car, which is the aging milestone that everyone dreams of achieving!
Personally, I'm amped about getting my senior citizen's discount at restaurants. Because food.
I came home from work today, with a bag full of fun cupcake baking activities I plan on doing with the kids tomorrow--oh, right, I babysit now too. I'm a nanny/bartender, because the best thing to do after being around someone else's kids all day is to go somewhere filled with booze that you're not allowed to drink. I swear I'm not masochist.
Anyway, I came in with a spring in my step as I began bidding my final farewells to my twenty-fourth year. My dad wished me an almost-birthday, my mom had put a picture of me up on the desktop, and we ate curry and rice for dinner. The curry has nothing to do with my birthday. I just fucking love curry.
I went up to my room to pick out a birthday outfit and call some people about potential birthday plans...and then I saw the condition of my room. Let's just say that, if I were a burn-out teenager trying to stick it to the man by making a mess and wearing black lipstick, my room would be fine. But this is the bedroom of a twenty-five-year-old, who's lived in New York City and graduated from college and writes papers dissecting literary theory. Or at least, it's supposed to be.
But in all honesty, my room is a joke right now. There's an empty box for a box fan. There's no god damn box fan in my room. Just the box. I've got a different fan in here, a little oscillating fan on a shelf by the window (no box to be seen) which I made room for by dumping everything on it onto my desk. My desk, by the way, hasn't been able to be used as a desk since around the time I moved back into my parents house in December, but right now it is a please-call-FEMA level disaster. There's a plastic grocery bag underneath a book underneath a handcarved wooden incense burner underneath my big iPod dock, which has the cords draped around it like a lounging Greek Cesar. It's like the leaning tower of however much random shit I can absentmindedly stack in my room. There's a tissue neatly folded up on the corner--why this is folded instead of the army of clothes on my floor is yet another myster. There's an empty bottle of perfume, a glass that once had a candle in that is now a lightly scented dust collector, and what looks like a movie ticket stub. There's also a stack of books there; it's the hardcover Divergent trilogy, which has a pretty little cardboard sleeve that probably took one look at my room and said, "Fuck this, I'd rather be in Dauntless."
Anyway, I came in with a spring in my step as I began bidding my final farewells to my twenty-fourth year. My dad wished me an almost-birthday, my mom had put a picture of me up on the desktop, and we ate curry and rice for dinner. The curry has nothing to do with my birthday. I just fucking love curry.
I went up to my room to pick out a birthday outfit and call some people about potential birthday plans...and then I saw the condition of my room. Let's just say that, if I were a burn-out teenager trying to stick it to the man by making a mess and wearing black lipstick, my room would be fine. But this is the bedroom of a twenty-five-year-old, who's lived in New York City and graduated from college and writes papers dissecting literary theory. Or at least, it's supposed to be.
But in all honesty, my room is a joke right now. There's an empty box for a box fan. There's no god damn box fan in my room. Just the box. I've got a different fan in here, a little oscillating fan on a shelf by the window (no box to be seen) which I made room for by dumping everything on it onto my desk. My desk, by the way, hasn't been able to be used as a desk since around the time I moved back into my parents house in December, but right now it is a please-call-FEMA level disaster. There's a plastic grocery bag underneath a book underneath a handcarved wooden incense burner underneath my big iPod dock, which has the cords draped around it like a lounging Greek Cesar. It's like the leaning tower of however much random shit I can absentmindedly stack in my room. There's a tissue neatly folded up on the corner--why this is folded instead of the army of clothes on my floor is yet another myster. There's an empty bottle of perfume, a glass that once had a candle in that is now a lightly scented dust collector, and what looks like a movie ticket stub. There's also a stack of books there; it's the hardcover Divergent trilogy, which has a pretty little cardboard sleeve that probably took one look at my room and said, "Fuck this, I'd rather be in Dauntless."
For those of you who haven't read it, know that this guy basically runs the place. Yup.
Oh, yeah, the book situation. There is inexplicably several piles of books scattered on any available surface in my room. I can reach seven different books in three different places from where I'm sitting on my bed right now. Also a Kindle that doesn't belong to me and hasn't been charged in months. This isn't some adorable book nerd situation, where I just get so lost in everything that I'm reading that my room becomes a romanticized episode of hoarders. For my fellow English degree nerds (and because it's my birthday and I'll reference Jane Austen if I want to) I'm not being Lizzy Bennett, here. I think I have a condition like the quirky ominous girl from Signs, the one who leaves glasses of water everywhere like a total asshole. So basically, if there's a race of aliens allergic to books that tries to invade Earth, my room is the safest place to be. Besides, you know, a library.
"No, son, the aliens are allergic to water. I'M allergic to books. All that knowledge gives me hives."
Second in line to books being scattered everywhere is jewelry. It looks like a gypsy tried to undress in my room and started just tossing her bangles and dangly earrings and big necklaces all willy nilly. Oh, and she left all her clothes on the floor; as it's been established, I apparently dress like a gypsy. Floral skirts and crop tops are god damn everywhere. Including in bags, because I did a lot of thrift-store-shopping recently and decided that keeping them in the bags was better than just dumping them on my floor. They're put away somewhere, ammiright? No?
I think my favorite part of this mess is the chair. Yup, there's a chair. I discovered it as I was digging through what I had been referring to as the "too dirty for the closet, too clean for the floor" pile. I had seen the chair in my room, because I have eyes that can recognize shapes, but I had forgotten that it has a purpose as a chair and not just a clothes dispensary, until I started digging around in that pile of clothes and my hand hit something hard. It was sort of like that moment in movies about treasure hunters where the protagonists are digging, talking about how hopeless everything is and how stupid they were for going on this crazy adventure, when suddenly one of their shovels hits something hard and hollow. Only I didn't look up into Matthew McConaughey's stunned eyes to recognize the same holy-shit-we-found-it look that I was giving him. It was just me, saying, "Well, I didn't find any clean underwear. But hey, a chair! Also, I'm disgusting."
I think my favorite part of this mess is the chair. Yup, there's a chair. I discovered it as I was digging through what I had been referring to as the "too dirty for the closet, too clean for the floor" pile. I had seen the chair in my room, because I have eyes that can recognize shapes, but I had forgotten that it has a purpose as a chair and not just a clothes dispensary, until I started digging around in that pile of clothes and my hand hit something hard. It was sort of like that moment in movies about treasure hunters where the protagonists are digging, talking about how hopeless everything is and how stupid they were for going on this crazy adventure, when suddenly one of their shovels hits something hard and hollow. Only I didn't look up into Matthew McConaughey's stunned eyes to recognize the same holy-shit-we-found-it look that I was giving him. It was just me, saying, "Well, I didn't find any clean underwear. But hey, a chair! Also, I'm disgusting."
"Look, it says here that you can win an Oscar if you don't make movies like this one." "Sorry, I'm allergic to books."
And to top it all off, my going-on-twenty-year-old cat has dragged enough kitty litter across my bed to warrant pajamas that double as a hazmat suit, but at this point it's pointless to keep changing the sheets because she does it so god damn much.
So I decided to do something that goes against my natural impulse and did the mature, twenty-five-year-old thing to do: I started cleaning straight away. I put on some good music, folded my clothes, vacuumed the floor, dusted all that needed to be dusted, and put my books away in alphabetical order. My new year will begin with freshness of room, body, and spirit.
Nope! I described it to you online because fuck you it's my birthday.
So I decided to do something that goes against my natural impulse and did the mature, twenty-five-year-old thing to do: I started cleaning straight away. I put on some good music, folded my clothes, vacuumed the floor, dusted all that needed to be dusted, and put my books away in alphabetical order. My new year will begin with freshness of room, body, and spirit.
Nope! I described it to you online because fuck you it's my birthday.
I'm sitting in a pile of my own dirty laundry.
Never too old to stall, bitches.
Photo Cred:
Cheap old people food: have no idea what the website is about because it's my birthday.
He-looks-like-a-man-with-poor-leadership-skills guy: this website. This movie was almost a great book adaptation until it suddenly wasn't. Not a great birthday present.
Gel Mibson's alien experience: didn't read this site either, happy birthday to me. I think it's a blog and possibly inspirational. Don't care.
Fool's Gold, not to be confused with Oscar gold: this Rotten Tomatoes quiz that I neither read nor took because birthday.
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