I’m not that girl

Well, cats and kittens.
Those of you with a good memory, stalkers, and dear friend will know that on this coming Monday, it will have been 24 glorious years that this planet has been graced with the unique mixture of wit, pyschoses, and innapropriate behavior that wiggle together to create me.
That’s right, fockers, it’s my berfday.
Don’t worry.
There’s still PLENTY of time to get me something off my wishlist.
A late gift is a gift nevertheless.
I really have nothing else to say, but if you see an extra bounce in my interstep, it’s because birthdays always make me happy, because unlike those who look back and see how much they’ve lived and feel so old and regret another year passing, I spend the day looking back and realizing how immature I still am and this whole Age thing ought to start kicking in soon, or I’m going to be a sad, sad, 50-year-old woman who still refers to her mid-section as “tummy” and refuses to eat bread with crust on it.
I have written two poems about this, oh, glorious of days.
The first is a haiku, which was actually written as a sad statement on my mental health, but after that last paragraph, sounds like it’s bragging. It’s not:
One year less than a
quarter of a century.
Feels like I’m 16.
Well, slap my ass and call me Shakespeare.
This next one I wrote in my sleep and when I awoke, I immediately told it to Felicia so I wouldn’t forget.
This one touches me right here. (I am pointing to my heart)
When I was 6, I cried because I didn’t understand myself.
When I was 12, I cried because my friends didn’t understand me.
When I was 18, I cried because my parents didn’t understand me.
Now I’m 24, and I realize what a whiny bitch I used to be.
Happy Birthday, Me!

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