The anticlamatic celebration of 21 years of humanness

As of now, I will be 21 in 20 minutes. Do you know what that means? I am 20 minutes away from doing absolutely nothing.

Perhaps I will engage in a bit of scratching, perhaps some light sobbing, maybe I'll make myself some crackers with a light garlic cheese spread, but nothingness will most likely be the prevelent ontological state.

I feel slightly depressed right now because 21 years ago, when I was a wee fetus, I imagined that on midnight, 21 years down the road, I'd be sucking tequila off a stripper's well-moisturized toe, surrounded by close, encouraging friends. The reality, as it turns out to be, is that I'm sucking nacho cheese off my finger tips, because I just devoured half a bag of cheetoes, and now I'm migrating towards the Ben and Jerry's. And if I were a chic, this is where I'd say something gay like, "I have a spoon, and I know to use it!!!" But I'm not a chic, so I won't fucking say that shit.

But it's way to early to get depressed about the anti-climatic arrival of my 21st. Tomorrow is another day. I plan to make it a very drunk one. Gimme some salt, baby.