It’s my birthday!

Everybody cheer!

Because I’ve got a cold and have to work and am otherwise not celebrating, so please do it for me. Collectively, if you could down 31 beers in my name, that’d do it, thanks.

The biggest excitement for me so far this week was getting shoved and threatened at the local 7-11 Sunday night. Which was mostly lost on me since I was zonked out on cold meds and wasn’t sure of the day or planet. No, I can’t buy you matches, Ms. I’m-a-crack-whore-without-ID, I’m just here for toilet paper and ginger ale and as far as I know you’re just the NyQuil talking.

Okay, I’m not sure if she was a crack whore, but why would one be getting violent at a 7-11 in the late evening over matches? Does nicotine do that to people? I only get that way over programming languages.

Given that it was my birthday coming up, I wondered why the crazy fuck didn’t take it as a compliment that the poor immigrant man at the counter thought she might be too young to smoke (she was screaming that she was 29). Hell, I get the warm fuzzies every time I’m carded at a club. Take it while you can, I say.

Thankfully the chick was begging a stranger to buy her matches when I left the store, so she was too distracted to see me and I was able to escape before getting a smackdown. It’s a good thing, too, because I’m old and feeble and my body’s not what it used to be.