It's official.

One month from today I'll turn 30.

Yuck.

I don't take birthdays well.

It's some combo of having been spoiled as a child on that day every year with great parties, extravagant gifts and generally being treated like the center of the universe+the gravity of having had cancer twelve years ago, hence the overwhelming feeling of gratitude that washes over me on the 24th of November+the fact that my life feels like it's at a standstill--PhD in progress, other two full time jobs in progress, freelancing in progress, yet somehow I feel like I'm spinning my wheels+no significant romantic relationship in sight+anxiety about all the things in my life I can't control+living in a beautiful house in a go-nowhere town albeit filled with lovely people I adore even though I have absolutely no time to spend with them+the usual financial stresses+aging and the unknown (besides a nasty fight with an underactive thyroid that gets progressively worse and harder to diagnose/treat) illnesses I am likely to develop prematurely because I underwent chemo and radiation 12 years ago+I still have goddamn acne and now I also have wrinkles+the guilt of occupying myself with such trifles instead of just practicing the aforementioned gratitude.

But really, who cares? I mean, what's another fucking birthday? I'm all for aging gracefully, aren't you?

Have I mentioned I've decided to boycott all holidays this year?

Meh. I probably just need to go dancing and get rip-roaring drunk. Then I'll forget about all of it--at least for a few hours. . . .

I wish a brand new blue bicycle with a red ribbon could salvage this day, or that I could just put it out of my mind until the day actually comes and then just blow it off. But when have you known me to take anything lightly?