Happy Men Are Scum Day, Minor! Motto: Cuz once a year just ain't enough.

And thank you to everyone who left me a message wishing me a happy birthday. That made me very happy.

Anyway, I am in pain and sad and have taken too many muscle relaxers. So this entry will be fun.

First, though, I must speak of the Bowl, Super. I found myself jumping up and down like a cracked out cheerleader and clapping my hands when Tampa scored that final touchdown. I believe my words were "Holy shit. Ha! Eeee." Dignity abandoned me about three weeks ago, I believe. I made May and her little brother come in the house when they came to pick me up so I could watch the final two seconds.

There were fireworks, cheers, car horns blaring, the fire department running the sirens, gunshots, and someone set off a cannon. No, I am not kidding. We can only hope that it was a pre-approved celebration and not some handy person using this as an excuse to shoot shit with a cannonball.

"Hello" is now archaic. The proper greeting, it seems, is "Go, Bucs." It's a little scary. But, you know, after over twenty years of LOSING, I'm surprised I'm not seeing any fires or happy little riots.

So, yeah. Yay and shit.

And now is when I will talk about the birthday.

The birthday was good. Great, even. I cooked food and people ate food and I drank and drank and drank. It kinda sucked, though. I wasn't able to make anything with PUFF PASTRY (capitalized because, well, it's fucking PUFF PASTRY). I was still rushing to put everything together when everyone showed up. But that's OK. Cuz I had a table cloth and a father who didn't seem to mind that I was drinking something out of a paper bag while broiling.

My best friend in the whole wide world made me a sexy dinner party mix tape and provided the Boone's Farm party favors. I think I ended up drinking most of the bottles, but I can't exactly remember.

After dinner, the five of us (this is going to get confusing so pay fucking attention, alright?) which would be Best Friend, Are, Tee, Jerkface aka That Boy and me, piled onto my bed and drank.

It was cold out and the booze was plentiful which reminded Best Friend and I about the winter we plus Jay and First Love(?) would hang out on my bed drinking Old English and listening to 80s night. This one time, I called them up and using my sexy voice, asked them to play Welcome to the Jungle. I may have said something along the lines of "You can come to my jungle, baby." The DJ was so impressed that he put me on the radio. I still have the tape somewhere. I was surprised at how much I sounded like an old Vegas whore. Anyway, I am rambling. That little explanation was necessary because Jay showed up later and called First Love(?) to tell him to come over. First Love(?) called back an hour after most everyone had gone home and sounded very distressed that he had forgotten my birthday. God, that is a horrible pseudonym. Anyway.

I read some more bad pre-teen poetry and I really think I should take the notebook with me the next time I'm at a place that has an open mic night. I will know then that the shame has gone away forever, abandoning me in a furious rage that leaves tire tracks. On my SOUL.

Yeah, I don't know, either.

So, about Jerkface. First, the name change has nothing to do with him, more my obsession with proper sounding sentences. I would type out an example but my neck hurts and I don't have to do anything, dude.

I like him. A lot. That whole wanting him so bad it hurts deal? Yeah. He knows. He knows more things than he should. And I know more things than I should, too.

OK, fuck this ambivalence. Why is it always so hard to write about him? Is it because I never have any idea what's going through his head most of the time? Or why he does things he does? Or says the things he says? I am still being ambivalent. Whatever. This is too long so I will instead offer little paragraphs of things and you all can draw your own conclusions.

1) I asked him a question like "Would you still like me if I had six fingers on one hand?" but not. I can't remember what I said, so just pretend, OK? Anyway, he answered by offering me a gummy bear. I told him that would make a great scene in a story. Then I thought, fuck. If I were someone who was not me and I talked to me, I would be scared that I would put it in a story. Or something.

2) That night, my conscience was somewhere in Miami, sucking down Jello shots while booty dancing to Barry Manilow. In other words, not where I needed it. I believe I tried to convince Jerkface that there was a certain hour in the night where anything goes. Kind of like the International Waters of time. And then I said, hey! We can head out to International Waters! I have no idea if that's supposed to be capitalized.

3) Coincidentally...Ass? I would like you to meet Karma. She owns you now.

4) He touched my scars and I told him that very few people were allowed to do that. He said, "I know" and then he told me that he was proud of me. That meant a lot more to me than I let on. No one has said that before. Yeah.

I'm done with this. I don't know anything and it's time for a cigarette.

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