Wait, it's my birthday.

[at least, it was on Feb. 15th. I just got around to posting this, pulling it from my perpetually open word doc on the computer here:]

after working myself to the bitter and teeth-gritting bone tonite preparing for a brunch tomorrow, which people will be attending in honor of my birthday (and then we're heading out to Hollywood Blvd. two blocks away for an anti-war march) I’ve realized some things:

I am certifiably insane.
I am very much like my mother.
I am desperately in need of drugs, a vacation, and time spent alone—not necessarily in that order.