Last night, reflecting on my last day as a 35 year old person, I made a really profound and specific observation about birthdays. For SOME reason, Morrison did not find it that revolutionary, but his standards are high. It was something like, and maybe seriously grab a pen and write this down or perhaps get it tattooed to your rib cage:
Birthdays kind of make me sad because they remind you that you’re getting older, that you’re not young anymore.
I know this musing is esoteric and vague, so I’ll break it down for you:
With each birthday, I feel older, thus more aware of all of the years I’ve lived, how much I’ve changed. I KNOW. More specifically, the nice things I like to do for myself on the day drastically shift. Like today, I woke up early just so I can drink coffee in bed, and I’m getting my house cleaned, so I that can come home after work to clean countertops and floors. IF THAT’S NOT A BOUNCYHOUSE OF ADULTHOOD I TRULY DO NOT KNOW WHAT IS. BUT ALSO I DID THIS INSANE CAT FACE MASK FROM CARRIE, SO JK, I’M STILL TWELVE
