Forty-Eight Minutes

In 48 minutes, I'll be thirty years old.

I've just polished off yet another bag of Haribo lying on the air mattress that's serving as my only piece of furniture at the moment...excluding the ashtray, of course.

My boyfriend is jumping around like a bored puppy. "But you're turning THIRTY. Let's go and grab a midnight champagne."

Forget it. My head has been nipping all day after the excesses of last night. There's that delicious combination of pain from pure drink-related cell damage, and the queasy feeling that comes from the knowledge that, while you believed yourself to be the cool picture of eloquent slickness, you probably just stumbled around made a complete tit of yourself in front of colleagues and strangers alike.

Again.

Maybe all of this anxious buildup to the substitution of a three for the two on official forms is just garbage.

Thirty will have to look better than this.