to be 30.

Well, it's a pretty sorry time in the life of a writer when the writer hasn't written for seven days.

But I haven't anything to say.

Life is boring. I'm pretty sure I've successfully hermitized myself. One of the only things I've been successful at in a long time. Sadly.

I'm going to end up a 30 year old who feels the need to get shitwrecked at parties and say really obnoxious things really loudly and dye her hair platinum blonde and in general be a plastic whorish type lady because of my wasted youth.

Which reminds me, I did go out the other day when aunt brought me to a 30 year old version of a house party. It was, at moments, fun, and had delicious jello shooters. There were two types of people there: the chill ones getting a bit tipsy and having a bang-up time, and the ones who despite being 10+ years older than me were acting about three years younger than me. The latter group included at least one plastic whorish type woman (PWTW). I think she even took a shot of amaretto from between her ginormous fake boobs. Pure class. She was the first person we ran into coming in the door. I briefly tossed around the idea of leaving.

At one point the host of the party couldn't be found (we found out later that he was pissed that people were hiding bottles and caps around his house and went outside to cool off. Apparently alcohol makes him a real pain in the ass Type A.) and PWTW, no doubt believing she is being incredibly helpful pipes up with "O my god, he's MIA. O. My. God. He's. M. I. A. He's MIA! OMG. O my fucking god, he's MIA. He's MIA. O my goddddd!"

No word of a lie, that is exactly what she said.

I wanted to punch her right in the silicon boob.

Instead, I stood behind her and imitated her, silently mouthing her words, much to my own amusement.


Ps, I changed the song of the week. Give it a listen, Regina Spektor is amazing.