Anyone who knows me knows that I shun my birthday like the Bubonic Plague. For one, wacky shit always happens around my birthday--people seem to die on me during this time of the year, terrorist attacks happen, the whole nine yards. In short, my birthday sucks. I have this twisted idea that if I IGNORE my birthday, it's like it never happened and thus, I "forget" to adjust my age when people ask how old I am. It's so convenient. It's so delusional. I love delusion. I wish they would make delusion in pill form and bottle it. Oh wait, they do! It's called Vicodin. Ohhhh I love Vicodin. I hoard them like a squirrel hoards acorns. But anyhow....
How old am I, you ask? REALLY FUCKING OLD. Old enough that not only are my bones turning to dust (see calcium pills above), but other parts of me are dusty as well--like my as-yet unused uterus. My uterus is like the "Handi-Stitch" contraption I bought in the "As Seen On TV" store in the mall and promptly put in my closet once I got home: Chances are, I will never use the thing, but I like to know that it's there and the batteries in it still work, regardless. I never thought I would be old enough to come to the "Do or Die" point when it comes to my reproductive organs, but I am approaching the Double Black Diamond area of Mount Fertility, and let me tell you, the trail down doesn't look pretty. Which is why I prefer to hang out in the Chalet and drink spiked hot chocolate instead.
Enough about dusty uteruses and failing fertility. Let's get to gifts. Every year I compile a list of things I want for my birthday. Some staples remain (money, my youth), but if you're looking for the perfect gift for me, here are some pointers
1. Endoscopic brow lift, restylane injections in lips, labial folds (on my face, you pervs), and brow lines, botox, laser peel, by whoever did Demi Moore's work. I want it all. I want to be buffed to a high sheen, even if this means I will never raise my eyebrows again. Eyebrow-raising is overrated anyway.
2. One month stay at fat farm to regain the ass I had at 26 (which actually came about because I lived on ephedra, black coffee, green apples, and booze for 5 months--ah, youth).
3. Literary agent who gets me some killer book deal that gets me rich enough to freeze my eggs--hell, to even freeze my whole damn uterus until I am ready to use it.
4. Nelly Furtado and Justin Timberlake's new albums (even the geezers like to get their groove on).
5. Subscriptions to every trash magazine out there, so I don't have to read them in the grocery store (Viva is cheap as hell and won't buy them).
6. Cheese fries. (Give me the fries before the fat farm--once I am there, they can just give me one of those colonic irrigations and flush the cheese fries right back out of me).
7. Weekend in NYC where I can get drunk with all of my friends and we can convince ourselves, after 7 or 8 martinis, that we are still young and vibrant, and the world is our oyster. AND we can buy knock-offs on Canal Street. I love knock-offs!
8. Footage of Jessica Simpson shooting her next music video in Alaska, wherein she is mauled by a huge brown bear and torn limb from limb while her father Joe screams in horror. I would watch this every day. In slow motion.
Enough birthday talk, I'm going to get back to work, but not before adding some booze to my morning coffee, even if it is only 9 a.m. The Birthday Girl can do whatever the hell she wants, dammit!!!
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