In the last days before my birthday every year, I always feel as if the age that I am leaving behind is incredibly and ridiculously young. How could I have ever taken myself seriously at the age that I was? And now, now that I am one year older, now that I have one more notch on my belt–NOW I will be taken seriously and not continue to say stupid things constantly. Now I will not get in trouble at work for silly little things I didn’t think would be a big deal but apparently WERE!

Then, in the twilight of the birthday itself, I come to realize that, no. No I won’t better, smarter, faster, stronger (not even with Kanye’s help) just because I’m officially one year older. This is why getting old sucks. It’s not that we don’t want to get older, it’s just that we’re all convinced that we’re supposed to get better with age, and that’s just a plain ol’ load o’bull.

Among more sunnier tidbits of information, here’s this: I simultaneously ate my favorite enchiladas, the world (second) best queso, and a fantastically fabulous margarita over the weekend. Can’t beat that with a stick. Other things I ingested are as follows: oatmeal cake, vanilla ice cream, cokes, mexican food casserole, shrimp, artichokes, pasta, cokes, and cheesecake. So, in summary, birthday weekends are delicious.