I write about sleeping and dreams, a lot. Somnambulistic overtones of my writing are certainly not lost to the one doing the typing and dreaming. Today is my thirty second birthday.
I fell asleep last night a little after midnight. I cuddled into my softly snoring, furry pillow, my Bryce, and hummed “Happy Birthday” to myself. I fell asleep shortly after.
I overslept this morning, hitting the snooze over and over, yet somehow I made it to work on time. Bravo. My shirt today smells like it wasn’t dried thoroughly enough. And my mom called me moments after I stepped out of the shower. I smiled and listened to her annual tale of how (insert age here) years she traveled to the hospital in a rickety green pickup truck and gave birth to a darling naked, baby boy. It was nice talking to her this morning, although I was naked. I hate talking to my parents naked. Happens more often than you'd expect.
And yes, that's indeed a princess fairy birthday cake pictured above.
Finally dressed in my slacks and work shirt, I scolded my mom for not packing up her boxes quickly enough. She’s moving from her current home (in Cedartown proper) to a much nicer house (in the country close to our old homestead). I worry about her incessantly. Will she pay off the new home? Will she even move into the new home? And suddenly, I’m thirty-two. Should I worry about my own ambitions yet?
Bryce bought me a terrific book, Making Comics by Scott McCloud. I’ve read the entire chapter regarding “Clarity”. Do I have the patience for an endeavor like making a comic? Well. I guess I do. I keep forgetting I made a comic strip for forty odd weeks. Yes. I know weeks is a far cry from years, but progress is progress.
Potent stuff birthdays are. One day out of the year you get to eat cake, receive hilarious cards and foresee your ultimate doom at the smooth, ivory hands of the Grim Reaper.
Ultimate doom … well, at least there’s one superlative in this dismal existence. I’m kidding, of course.
Plans tonight? I don’t think so. The majority of my partying was accomplished Saturday via corn mazes, dim sum and karaoke. Tonight I think we’re ordering take-out and catching up on the dozens of television programs choking our DVR.
Still. Must. Finish. “Lost”. DVD. Before. Watching. Season. Three.
Crap like that. Holla thirty two. Bitches beware.