Good God. I ache down to the very marrow of my brittle brittle bones. I am tired in the way Sisyphus must have been tired. I want the stone of my life to roll right over me. I am tired of walking up hills.

I hate birthdays. Or, rather, I hate my birthday. I hate the entire month of May. I hate today.

For my birthday dinner: shells and cheese. I'm eating well tonight, folks. I plan to wash it down with copious drink. I plan to blot myself out. The music will be loud.

The light on the answering machine blinks more furiously now than it has in its entire existence. I don't want to listen to the messages. I'm too tired, too forlorn. I need a break. I need some slack.

For miles around people must have heard me crashing through the woods tonight like some wounded bear. Screeching and groaning and blind with pain.

I took tomorrow off. I'm not sure I have the wherewithal for travel, but knowing I could leave has made a small tear in the black box of existence. The great plan is to go home.

Just now: Basho let out with the intruder bark. I peeked out my peephole and discovered Bathsheba skulking away in the dark. She'd left a veritable treasure trove of gifts outside my door. I invited her in and it was fun. We rolled around on the ground, moaning in unison about our respective lots in life. And the gifts were great great great. Best of all: a Wil Wheaton t-shirt. I LOVE IT. I WILL WEAR IT EVERY DAY. Also in the gift bag: a cool bracelet, a classic MBTV t-shirt, a craft book, and a lockable Buffy diary ("if the apocalypse comes...beep me."). From Wolf: a beautifully wrapped pack of smokes (wait...what about the poison theory Wolf? You know, my memory? My coordination?). This act and the gifts are not the reason I love her, but they certainly contribute to the greater mosaic of my Bathsheba adulation.

And since I'm feeling a bit better and relating all the good things of birthdays now, I should note that my folks sent a lovely package as well full of parental-type gifts (roll of quarters, socks, flea treatment stuff for the menagerie, car payment checks for the entire summer (!), a Star Trek magazine (me mother's a freak, godblessher), and jelly bellies. Mmmm.).

So birthdays don't suck. Sometimes I suck, but birthdays are nice. And Frances. If you're reading this--baby I love you and Lonesome Bob and patches too. Whoever patches is (that you Jeff?).

Welcome to the 28th year of my life. Rocky road, but the finish was sweet.