My 25th birthday is fast approaching. Twenty days to be exact.
Turning a quarter of a century is slightly getting to me... to my very core. It's not a big number, I know. I'm just coming to the realization that I never set any goals for myself by this age. Therefore, I have not achieved anything. Of course, I haven't not achieved anything either. So in conclusion I have achieved not being an underachiever. Well pat me on the back and throw a parade. I think I'll celebrate with the cheapest beer and eat Ramen for dinner... again.
I like to think that if I made decent money I'd be where I want to be. What the hell does that mean? I'd really like to be on a beach somewhere, looking good, and silently judging passers by (shut up, you know you do it). Did I ever really have a dream? I've been searching my memories for interests and hobbies lost in hopes of finding something... a glimmer of talent? I don't think that's the right word.
I know I was a mediocre piano player. I like to blame my piano teacher, Mr. Woodward. He had the voice of Ben Stein, smelled a little funky, and stared at the wall when he spoke. It's safe to assume he was scared of me, a young child.
Sports? Well, I was there. As a short, chubby white girl... I had no hope.
I'm not disappointed in myself. I work hard and I've done whatever it takes to make ends meet. Perhaps it is that never ending desire to please your parents. Well, that desire is a bitch... and I'm going to kick her ass eventually. Until then, I'll tell myself I'm awesome, hang out with these wacky friends I've made in Charleston, and turn 25... in my classic, ungraceful fashion.