Where'd I put my doilies?

The quick and depressing descent into "oldness" begins.

The second I started toying with the idea of actually celebrating a birthday for once (my birthdays have historically been horrendously annoying/painful/depressing occasions that generally lead to binge drinking, fist fights or litigation - whatever can go wrong will and with a vengeance) the doomiest of doom began to creep. Anything that can break, has, from the smallest household appliance to the roof falling down around me to the cause of 95% of my stress and anger no longer being content with merely picking at the hairline crack in my sanity. The narcissist/nihilist in me is convinced that the economy turning to crap is somehow tied into all of this as well.

So for a few months I've watched all of this spiral into the habitual pot-smoker (this is only a metaphor; I cannot afford vices) equivalent of a violent shame and anger spiral, all the while thinking that this is all a fluke, a phase, a convenient excuse to tell my sloppy world to go fuck themselves. Denial can be a lovely thing when paired with sarcasm and a skewed sense of self.

All of the second-guessing and ignoring my instincts and basically turning away from everything I used to like about myself all in the name of getting along and fitting into some screwed up idea of someone else's bliss was nothing compared to whatever Martha-Stewart-Voodoo temporarily (I hope, I hope, I hope) took over my brain this evening. In a matter of seconds I went from being alright with the concept of "Turning 30" to thinking using shot glasses to organize my meds and vitamins was the best idea I've had in a long while.

If anyone needs me I'll be at the kitchen table putting together a million piece puzzle from the Bridges of Lame Faux Scenery with Too Much Sky and listening to NPR. Now where'd I put my doily-hat...