Though I am still convinced that upon waking up tomorrow my uterus will fall out and my hair will have turned white (ala Leland Palmer), for some reason the funk has dissipated and I’m feeling like my regular old bitter self. The fact that the funk is gone is even weirder considering I was plagued last night by horrible nightmares involving mean people at movie theaters, giant worms and bugs infesting my house, and my bossboss saving me from “Mexican rat cats.”

Even though I have shaken the funk, I’m still in birthday denial and my negative attitude towards my own three-five has tainted how I feel about all the birthdays surrounding mine. For those of you playing along at home, I have a psychotic relationship with the day of my birth. I blame it all on the fact that your birthday is supposed to be this glorious day where you’re celebrated and it’s your special day alone, and mine was ripped from me at the tender age of eight when Sister #4 decided it was a good idea to be born.

Of course because Irony loves me and is my bitch, she made it so that two of the people who mean the most to me in the world, my FFJ and my Best Friend Kari, have birthdays on June 4 and June 5.

Fuck.

It’s the worst. My greetings are half-hearted, my gifts are lame, and it’s tough to celebrate the lives of all your friends when you want to forget you even exist.

And it’s all just a vicious cycle, because now I feel even worse about not caring about anyone’s birthday (it’s selfish) and I’m convinced that I’m officially old. Because Ally Sheedy was right all along, when you grow old your heart does die.