27 April 2011: The actual birthday

It’s my birthday. Thank goodness for Public Holidays. That much dawns on me as my brain tries to regain consciousness. Don’t ask me how old I am. I don’t even remember my middle name. Do I have a middle name? Ugh. Hung. Over.

My everything hurts and yet instead of my usual grumpy Fuck The World growl, I’m actually NOT grumpy. I’m not going to say something like happy or feeling good, because lets face it – I’m hanging lower than Gandalf’s sleeve. (Gratitude to Boy that is Friend for the awesome expression). But memories of the birthday party that rocked my decade is keeping me from unleashing my inner bitch on said Boy Friend who graciously drove the drunkard around and allowed said drunkard (Am I still talking about myself?) to sleep (read pass OUT) in the spare bedroom at his house. Was it at his house? Where am I? Quick scan around room. Dark blinds, guitar, cat. Good. Did not pass out at stranger’s abode. Check attire. Good. Did not pass out naked. Attempt to move body. Not Good. Epic fail actually. Lie and tweet in unconscious state for several hours.

I finally awake (and I use the term quite loosely here since I was far from it) to the smell of freshly ground coffee and strawberry muffins. There’s nothing like coffee and a good muffin in the morning. I’m up. Zombie shuffle.

Drain two cups of deliciousness.

Drown in the shower.

Drive home.

The rest of the day is dedicated to tea and staring into the oblivion known as my laptop and whatever series my automated senses picked up at the dvd store. Talking about, I receive my dvds for free because it was my birthday. It’s the small things. Like my brain. Today it is nowhere to be found.

Took several phonecalls. Grumbled platitudes to family members and friends. Don’t remember who called, but thank you.

Bed. With a vengeance.