Happy Birthday.,

I will turn twenty-two in exactly two hours and fifteen minutes.

I haven't stopped crying since around eight.

The fact that I can even type this out with any remote efficiency is, quite frankly, magnificent, and something that deserves commendation.....a word that is oddly similar to condemnation.

I'm engaging in a sort of stream-of-consciousness typing that is ridiculously difficult to express and even more ridiculous to read. I have an undying urge to insert an "anyway" that leads off into a paragraph of seemingly coherent, informative garble that gives cause to the writing of this post in the first place but I know that that would be the equivalent of using a piece of gum to patch a whole in the Hoover Dam.

All I can think of is...

" my mother was 22 when she was engaged..."

" my father was 22 when he was accepted into medical school....and asked my mother to marry him"

"when my favorite aunt was 22, she was living in New York....by herself....chasing her dreams"

"my grandparents considered themselves middle aged at 22"

"the probability of me sucking at life is increasing on an hourly basis"

"I AM 22, FINANCIALLY AND EMOTIONALLY DEPENDANT ON MY PARENTS AND COMPLETELY VOID OF ANY REDEEMING QUALITIES THAT COULD POSSIBLY LAND ME:

A) a place at a decent grad school (Med, Law, Underwater Basket Weaving, ETC.)
B) a boyfriend
C) a job that pays more than $5.50 an hour.

bring me vodka.

NOW.