portrait of a 34-year-old
I had a lovely birthday, thank you very much. I have wonderful friends and I would do well to remember that. We sang, we drank and I opened some wonderfully thoughtful gifts. That was Saturday night - before
my birthday. Sadly, on Sunday morning I woke to a vicious allergy attack. I had to triple down on Reactine and then spent the rest of the day very, very stoned. I somehow managed to soldier on and open more gifts - a fantastic, custom Elmer
dress and a super cool strapless number from Preloved
. It was the b'day that kept on giving. Why, I even had another present fed-exed to my door Monday morning. Spoiled.
Ron Sexsmith makes me cry when I listen to him in the dark. He looks like a cherub. I almost chatted him up when he performed in the CBC studios until I remembered that I had nothing to say other than "I like your white jacket". I suspect we both dodged a bullet.
I wonder if my skin is thick enough for this freelance stuff. Rejection sucks. I avoid it and I rarely dish it out. I'm the girl you see slow dancing to Hotel California with the biggest creep in the bar. I just can't be mean... to people's faces. I paid my dues.
I am reading Martin Amis' Success.
Why do I always relate with the most pathetic and unsavoury characters? I suspect I have answered my own question.