Just me and my many mini breakdowns.

In the course of my "Oh shit you are 25 and you don't have a home. Oh shit, you're 25 , you are in debt, you are unemployed, you have yet to graduate. Oh shit you are worthless. Oh shit you are a loser. Oh shit you will be 30 before you know it, and still a loser. Shit Shit Shit" birthday I arrived to find myself drenched in pink, opening gifts, sipping on richmond gimlets, and blindfolded. I was in fine company. I had fun. Silly, meaningful fun. I was able to forget the daylong seige of selfpity and regret. I was able to laugh, and I was able to cry. And I did just that. I cried. Late into the early morning. I sobbed because the boy never called me. The boy who has called me every day for the greater portion of my early 20s. That one. The one who seemingly forgot I existed, ever. I was doing fine, well and good until it hit me, and it hit hard with that 5th cocktail.

Call it a lesson learned, but I ended up laughing. Luckily for all the rage, the let downs, the over simplification, for all the dramatics, I had great friends to take care of me, to make me laugh and take me home.

"Well shit I'm 25. I'm broke. I have no home. No job. And no clue. But I have the greatest fucking friends in the whole of the world, and that's something to have at 25 when your broke, lost, and sobbing."