Well the birthday did end up with me passed out in 747's bed. Whilst boys ran around quasi-naked and being general hooligans, I lay in a coma oblivious to it all.
This was a booze-filled evening, and passing out was the obvious result to it all.
The one great thing with birthdays is: it's the one time of year where you get to see all your mates in one room at one time. And while tequila flows and flows (Christ, I must've had about 8 on Friday night...and two cosmopolitans...and God knows what else I imbibed), it's just great to be around all my mates together. I got horrifically smashed. I haven't been that blotto in a while, considering the stupendous amount I consumed.
I should've really had a tactile – but managed to avoid it.
Everyone who is unbelievably important to me was there, barring Moogs and Doc who are teeing off in Scotland on a buggers holiday. Even my ex Dick made an effort to come through, which was sweet, and Ant came through from the Poenda.
I didn't even feel old. Probably because of the amount of alcohol being thrown around, and after a thousand down downs, one starts to feel like a kid on her birthday again.
Saturday was spent with Mr 747 and his mate in Irene again. Very chilled, awesome day. This little place (the tables under the oak trees at the dairy, with cold white wine) may just become a regular thing. Thirty minutes from Joburg and you're in the country, smelling the pungent yet delightfully farmescent, bovine by-product.
Lucas asked where I'd been for the last two nights. (I have to check in?) I explained I was “at my new boyfriend's place.” He then said, “I'll kill him.” Ant was around during this conversation and indignantly said, "Why didn't he ever get protective with me? He never so much as looked at the Gilb!"
I don't know. Good question. I have no idea why he has taken it upon himself to want to kill my boyfriends.
Lucas has shifted into psycho gear, officially.
Showing posts with label birthday. Show all posts
Showing posts with label birthday. Show all posts
Monday, September 17, 2007
Saturday, September 15, 2007
the birthday
I'm horrifically depressed.
This often happens around my birthday and Christmas, so it's completely normal.
Maybe it was the two gin and tonics I had last night, or maybe it's feeling old and helpless.
Twenty seven, oh my god, 27 years ago I was dispelled from mother's chute.
Being 26 was a helluva lot more hardcore than being 25. I can safely say it was the hardest, most taxing year of my life. The year of most growth – without a doubt. May 27 have less bumps in the road, my God, please.
Twenty-seven suddenly sounds so...grown up. Do I have to, like, be responsible now? Does this hactually mean I have to know what the fuck is happening with my tax returns? Do I have to be on top of my traffic fines?
God help me – do I need to take out life insurance?
Do I need to start seriously saving for my pension? With no husbank in sight, it would appear that my total life savings may get me a box, dog food and maybe a free copy of Homeless Talk when I'm 65.
Twenty seven irritatingly sounds like I'm meant to be mature. No more driving after two jaegermeisters, no more sucking random face (when single) at the Manhunt Club.
Looking after my health! Fuck!
Now I have to start taking vitamins for Over 25s, work out, like work out so that I don't get flabby arms, whilst checking for new wrinkles in the mirror.
I don't feel special, I feel depressed. At 26, I still had leeway. I could still fuck up, and people would generally turn a blind eye. Now there's no room for that.
Quite frankly, this whole “growing up” thing washes over me like an oil slick in the Indian Ocean. It's. Not. Cool. It's. Pants.
I suppose what could make it more bearable is a couple of alcoholic beverages with everyone after the day is over.
What I'm happy to have done in 27 years:
1)Written a book
2)Ran naked through the streets of Cape Town
3)Been able to drink 10 jaegerbombs and still stand
4)Got kicked out of Canada for insufficient visa requirements
5)Worked at a supermarket in the US and made friends called Bubba and Chip
6)Told someone in French to “go fuck themselves up their own doetpipe”
7)Pranged an Audi A3
8)Been loved once
9)Met Nelson Mandela. Twice.
10)Ate more smoked salmon than your average Norwegian
I may have to beat my way through this day with a stick.
This often happens around my birthday and Christmas, so it's completely normal.
Maybe it was the two gin and tonics I had last night, or maybe it's feeling old and helpless.
Twenty seven, oh my god, 27 years ago I was dispelled from mother's chute.
Being 26 was a helluva lot more hardcore than being 25. I can safely say it was the hardest, most taxing year of my life. The year of most growth – without a doubt. May 27 have less bumps in the road, my God, please.
Twenty-seven suddenly sounds so...grown up. Do I have to, like, be responsible now? Does this hactually mean I have to know what the fuck is happening with my tax returns? Do I have to be on top of my traffic fines?
God help me – do I need to take out life insurance?
Do I need to start seriously saving for my pension? With no husbank in sight, it would appear that my total life savings may get me a box, dog food and maybe a free copy of Homeless Talk when I'm 65.
Twenty seven irritatingly sounds like I'm meant to be mature. No more driving after two jaegermeisters, no more sucking random face (when single) at the Manhunt Club.
Looking after my health! Fuck!
Now I have to start taking vitamins for Over 25s, work out, like work out so that I don't get flabby arms, whilst checking for new wrinkles in the mirror.
I don't feel special, I feel depressed. At 26, I still had leeway. I could still fuck up, and people would generally turn a blind eye. Now there's no room for that.
Quite frankly, this whole “growing up” thing washes over me like an oil slick in the Indian Ocean. It's. Not. Cool. It's. Pants.
I suppose what could make it more bearable is a couple of alcoholic beverages with everyone after the day is over.
What I'm happy to have done in 27 years:
1)Written a book
2)Ran naked through the streets of Cape Town
3)Been able to drink 10 jaegerbombs and still stand
4)Got kicked out of Canada for insufficient visa requirements
5)Worked at a supermarket in the US and made friends called Bubba and Chip
6)Told someone in French to “go fuck themselves up their own doetpipe”
7)Pranged an Audi A3
8)Been loved once
9)Met Nelson Mandela. Twice.
10)Ate more smoked salmon than your average Norwegian
I may have to beat my way through this day with a stick.
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