It was my birthday this week! May 11th, 1984 until May 11th, 2011 (oh shit just realized this was my only year of 11-11…somehow this feels significant?) were quite the barnburner. But I feel like my life is just beginning! I know who I am and what I want and how to get it (I am a writer/I want to write/I will write). And considering a life is only as rich as the people in it, I’m a fucking billionaire!
Birthday highlights include: a solo May 10th in Malibu frolicking in the waves, stomping on seaweed poppers, spotting a seal AND a dolphin!, falling asleep in the sun, and reading A Practical Guide to Wicca hoping someone would notice how weird/intriguing I am (fail); that night many friends from my many L.A. lives rallied at Canter’s, the most Jewish and retro deli ever, where I ordered Thanksgiving dinner, took too many whiskey shots, and danced for/sang with the ragtag AWESOME cover band that plays the deli on Tuesday nights; a family-filled May 11th, Grandma ordered me Chinese food for a bday dinner (I told her I don’t like Chinese, I’d rather have Thai–she said “too bad”), my aunt and uncle gave me a new litter box (score!), and Beth, Jen Birn and I hit up the Roosevelt for Beacher’s Madhouse (Leo DiCaprio was there…so nice of him to join in my festivities!).
Here’s my official 27th birthday portrait, with a panda from Beacher’s:
I might grow older, but I refuse to grow up!
