I woke up this morning, checked my Friendster profile to see if it had changed, and yes, my friends, it had. As my age, it now lists 23. It is true. I wanted to see that it was.
I am not sure how I feel about this. My dad's sister called me shortly after this and said pretty much in this order and in this rapid a succession. "Happy Birthday! How are doing? Are you going back to college? I think you should." I am not even kidding. I wanted to punch Herta, but I somehow persevered through the phone conversation, found out that my dad is still alive, is living at a care center, and that my aunt really thinks it is important that I go back to college. Yeah, thanks for the birthday call.
Right after I got off the phone with her, my mom called. It was really nice talking to her. It made me happy to hear from her, I felt loved. I was reassured that I am. A man in Union Square, however, must not have gotten the memo that it was my birthday when he gruffed at me, "What side of the bench do you want?" since I was sitting in the middle of it like every other person on a bench. He plopped down next to me. I left the park, came home, lied on my bed and read trashy magazines, still resting from last night's massive quantities of beer that were consumed, and the toxins of which my body is still working out of its system. Tonight, more beer will be put into my system. I will probably dance a lot with friends at one of two trashy gay bars - I am still not sure which. And if you want, you should join me.