I’m not fishing for “Happy Birthdays,” I promise, but I just can’t seem to get over the fact that I’m a year older.  I’m on the wrong side of twenty-five.  The side that leads to thirty.  And I swear to God if one person leaves a comment saying how young I am and how I have my whole life ahead of me and how good things come to those who wait, blah blah blah, I’ll go ape-shit on their ass.

I know people out there GET IT.  I know I’m not the only person who feels like a complete and utter failure; like my life has gone a thousand miles in the wrong direction.  I totally know that.  I just don’t feel it most of the time.

You know what I mean?  I feel so all alone.  Yesterday I had a crappy day.  I woke up late so I didn’t have time to wash my hair.  Let’s just say when I don’t wash my hair I look like I dipped my head in a big tub of melted butter.  It was Monday and even though the schedule at the ortho office didn’t appear busy, I did not stop all day.  I was busy.  Crazy busy.  And I had wedding stuff to worry about on my lunch hour and when I got off of work.  And I was just tired and in a foul mood all day.  It sucked.  And I didn’t know who to call.  I wanted to call someone so badly and vent, but I didn’t know who to call.

Not knowing who to call wasn’t the worst thing though.  The worst thing was thinking about what I would say and realizing I couldn’t even really express HOW I was feeling or WHY I was feeling that way.  I’m a freaking “writer” and I can’t express myself!  And thinking about it made me realize that all of my complaints were bull shit and stupid and no one would want to hear about them.  And that made me think how I really needed a therapist.  Of course, that would just bring up the issue of not being able to express myself again.

I don’t know if this has anything to do with turning twenty-six, in fact, I’m sure it doesn’t because I’ve always been crazy like this, but I was thinking about being twenty-six yesterday as I walked out to my car and how I’ll never again WISH to be a year older.  Remember how when you were younger, you’d start saying you were 10 when you were only 9 and a half, because you wanted to be mature, adult, grown up?  You didn’t want to be seen as a kid anymore?  So you looked forward to each and every birthday.  You counted down the days and you made sure everyone knew how old you were.  It makes me incredibly sad that I won’t ever have that again.

Okay, maybe I will, when I’m like 99.  Cause it would be pretty freaking cool to tell people you were turning 100.

But anyways.  I’m twenty-six now.  Twenty-six.  I’m trying to wrap my head around that.  I’m trying to be happy about that.  I’m trying not to see it as just another year flying by without me making anything of myself.  Without anyone else seeing anything in me.

I don’t want responses, really.  I don’t want to be patted on the back and told that everything is going to be okay and that I’m awesome.  Because I know that.  I really do.  But, like I said before, knowing and feeling are two different things.  Two very different things.