My birthday is coming up. Again. Funny how they do that.
Sweet W. recently asked me what I would like for my birthday. I honestly have no idea.
World peace? Do they still make that? That is what I want. I swear, the world has gone berserkers.
In anticipation of people asking me how old I'm going to be, I was fully prepared to say "Thirty-five." And then I realized I've gotten to the age where I'm saying "thirty-five" to sound young. Thirty-five is not young, kids. Nor is the age which I actually am.
If I weren't so frickin' senile, I might have realized that in the first place.
Thirty-five was a good year. But thirty-eight* has great potential, don't you think?
* I don't know why this is freaking me out so much -- I shrieked inwardly when I typed it and my insides turned to toxic sludge. I have friends who are older than I who no doubt will comment here to tell me how much I'm boring them. (Hi, Splooey!) "Call me when you turn forty," they will no doubt say. "Yawn."
Ack! I am about to be late for a meeting. Cheerio!