The anniversary of my day of birth is almost upon us. That’s right. I’m going to be the not-actually-that-big 23. Prepare yourselves.
Normally, I’d be very excited. Most years, I start counting down the days from the moment my half-birthday ends. Not this year. I have no hurrah in me. Life is stressing me out too much for that. *cue John Mayer’s “Gravity”*
Anyways, for the past couple of weeks, ever since she realized it was my birthday month, my mother has been pestering me about what I want. The one time a year my parents are willing to shower me with presents, and I can think of nothing. When I was little, I would literally type out of full list of things I wanted, organized by level of desire.
It’s not that I don’t want anything. My Amazon wish lists would very much prove otherwise. However, the things that I really want aren’t exactly things you can find online (well, most of them anyways.) In comparison to them, the stack of books, movies, and various knick knacks I would usually ask for seem insignificant. I mean, I can hardly hand over a list that looks like this: financial stability; a new job; a nice apartment; a boyfriend; tickets to Greece for a two month vacation…
You see my problem?
Getting older is not as much fun as it used to be. At least there’ll be cheesecake.
P.S. I know that I am actually very fortunate. I’m not completely selfish. Most of the above is just for show. You know. For the Drama.