Birthday Boy

On January 4, 2009, I am officially, irreversibly, unfortunately, fortunately done with my teen years.

My twenties begin with the consumption of two Tylenol precisely as the clock strikes 12:00am. This is in commemoration of the last twenty years of pain and in anticipation for the next twenty years of pain. Also, I just saw the worst movie in the history of planet Earth (Rachel Getting Married) and I was nauseous.

I wake up at 10:00am (the hour that I was born) to the sounds of mommy, gently rapping on the door, telling me what to wear and planning out the minute details of the next twenty years of my life. I am still half asleep and the only things I catch are, "yellow oxford shirt," "medical school," "three grand-kids."

In keeping with birthday tradition, mommy and daddy take me to lunch. And in keeping with my life's tradition, they discuss my inadequacies: past, present, and future. They tell me that my new age requires new maturity. No longer can I hide behind my sarcasm. No longer can I use their credit card. No longer can I wear woot shirts - the final knife in the heart.

Dinner will occur at 8:00pm at White Flint. I wonder if any of my friends will show up. Go there if you want to stalk me and see what I look like. I may or may not be wearing a yellow oxford shirt. I will not acknowledge you without gift in hand though. These are your options:

a $995USD Movado Watch

a $1297USD Polo Trench

a $50USD Male Masturbator

Or you could just leave a comment. Which is as good a gift as any.