All I want for Christmas is one of those beer can hats but with egg nog instead of beer

I kicked ass at work yesterday. I went above and beyond and all that wonderful shit. Celebrate.

I can't help but feel meloncholy this time of year. I need to stop blaming it on my mother. I'm a big girl now and I don't need to keep making excuses for how much I dislike this time of year.

Then I start to look at deeper reasons. Maybe I'm just a miserable person. All I know is that I would rather get knocked out for the next month and get woken up on New Year's Eve. Because I actually enjoy New Year's. If only that I have an excuse to get drunk and make out.

But that can't be it, either.

Nick told me that he bought my birthday present yesterday and he was actually BRAGGING about how he knew what it was and I didn't. And he knows that I hate to be uninformed. He knows that I hate to be the last to know. But he also knows that I like surprises.

Apparently, that makes little sense to everyone but him. He's wonderful. And he really likes me.

The poor man. I think I felt sorry for him the instant after I told him I loved him.

I start to imagine what it will be like when I'm pregnant with my first child and then I actually start to pity him. You should too.

Black Wednesday

So my birthday is on Wednesday. 25 years young.

I've never been a fan of the day. I guess I'm really not into celebrating my own birth, especially since one of my parents (who was like, there) isn't in the picture. And the other parent (and other other parent...god, I'm making this complicated) doesn't get all that excited about it, either.

I don't remember anyone ever being excited about it. I see my sister with her kids, getting them all riled up for the big 10 or the big 5 and I actually get jealous. (I'm not proud of being jealous of a 5 year old.) I don't think I ever got that pure, selfless feeling of wanting to have a day just about ME. Or maybe I did and I don't remember. It's entirely possible. I know I was a big brat when I was little...or so I'm told.

At any rate, I dread it every year. I don't want anyone to make a big deal and I just want it to get shoved under the rug, along with that extra five pounds and the book that I can't seem to finish reading.

But before you get all "aww, that's so sad, she just needs a nice day" and shit, remember this: I say I don't want anyone to make a big deal out of it, but I actually do.

I want everyone to make a HUGE deal to make up for the non-deal it was when I was little. I want surprises and declarations of love and voices from the past and a million dollars. I want a new car and a new computer and a house and a 4 carat diamond ring and a job that I really, truly love and to lose 20 pounds and to fit into a size 10 and to have smaller feet.

This is your life...

....and 5 more years until you can REALLY be depressed about your age.