swanage is older! swanage has surpassed the "quarter-life" milestone! swanage refers to himself in the third person!
I suppose I'm a weird kind of person in that I do not like making a big deal about my birthday really. In general, very few people know when my birthday is, and I generally like to keep it that way, because I don't particularly want any attention then. It's not so much that I dread getting older, but to be perfectly honest, I do. It's that I think making a big deal out of a birthday is silly because it's not any more special than any of the other 365 days of the year, and they're all pretty grand when you think about it.
My favorite days are holidays, those being St. Patrick's Day, Christmas Eve, and Christmas, in that order. St. Patrick's Day is the one day of the year I inevitably get well and truly drunk; on your average day I consume a decent quantity of alcohol, but I really very rarely get properly smashed. I prefer the slow gradual approach to assailing my liver.
Christmas Eve a lot of fun things usually happen. My parents usually come down to Maryland from New York to stay with my mother's parents and so I get to see them. I usually show up at my grandparents' house after everyone has left, and so I get to sneak in and leave presents there, which makes me feel sort of like Santa Clause only less corpulent and with a better shave. And then we all cram into my Great Aunt & Uncle's house in D.C. and have ourselves a good family gathering.
I generally tend to like my family, by the expedient that most of the people to whom I am related are somewhat smart, not painful on the eyes, and are generally good people.
Christmas is sort of like Christmas Eve, only with the volume turned down a tad, but still pretty nice.
This digression is my roundabout way of getting to the point that I don't particularly love a day where the celebration is centric to myself, particular myself getting older. So much so that I picked up a sizable bill at a highly overpriced raw fucking red meat steak restaurant last night with a friend who'd just gone and gotten himself an M Coupe. I could have ducked the bill by mentioning the fact that it was my birthday, but I much prefer not having done so. It makes me feel sneaky, and lessens the importance of the anniversary of my escape from my mother's ovarian bastille.
Plus the fucker's gonna need all the help he can get once he starts having to pay that damn thing off. I DID get to drive it (once again without playing the birthday card, muaha!) and it is an insanely capable and awesome vehicle. If lacking a backseat.
Speaking of backseats, I'm a bit of a wretch, as I've recently gotten laid (which in the annals of swanage, is an event!) and the circumstances surrounding it are such that I ought be ashamed of myself. I am truly a wretch, as I don't feel an ounce of shame what-so-ever. Regrettably, only good people are good all of the time.
I suppose I'm a weird kind of person in that I do not like making a big deal about my birthday really. In general, very few people know when my birthday is, and I generally like to keep it that way, because I don't particularly want any attention then. It's not so much that I dread getting older, but to be perfectly honest, I do. It's that I think making a big deal out of a birthday is silly because it's not any more special than any of the other 365 days of the year, and they're all pretty grand when you think about it.
My favorite days are holidays, those being St. Patrick's Day, Christmas Eve, and Christmas, in that order. St. Patrick's Day is the one day of the year I inevitably get well and truly drunk; on your average day I consume a decent quantity of alcohol, but I really very rarely get properly smashed. I prefer the slow gradual approach to assailing my liver.
Christmas Eve a lot of fun things usually happen. My parents usually come down to Maryland from New York to stay with my mother's parents and so I get to see them. I usually show up at my grandparents' house after everyone has left, and so I get to sneak in and leave presents there, which makes me feel sort of like Santa Clause only less corpulent and with a better shave. And then we all cram into my Great Aunt & Uncle's house in D.C. and have ourselves a good family gathering.
I generally tend to like my family, by the expedient that most of the people to whom I am related are somewhat smart, not painful on the eyes, and are generally good people.
Christmas is sort of like Christmas Eve, only with the volume turned down a tad, but still pretty nice.
This digression is my roundabout way of getting to the point that I don't particularly love a day where the celebration is centric to myself, particular myself getting older. So much so that I picked up a sizable bill at a highly overpriced raw fucking red meat steak restaurant last night with a friend who'd just gone and gotten himself an M Coupe. I could have ducked the bill by mentioning the fact that it was my birthday, but I much prefer not having done so. It makes me feel sneaky, and lessens the importance of the anniversary of my escape from my mother's ovarian bastille.
Plus the fucker's gonna need all the help he can get once he starts having to pay that damn thing off. I DID get to drive it (once again without playing the birthday card, muaha!) and it is an insanely capable and awesome vehicle. If lacking a backseat.
Speaking of backseats, I'm a bit of a wretch, as I've recently gotten laid (which in the annals of swanage, is an event!) and the circumstances surrounding it are such that I ought be ashamed of myself. I am truly a wretch, as I don't feel an ounce of shame what-so-ever. Regrettably, only good people are good all of the time.
... you better mean Rooster, bucko.