flying through clouds of uncertainty on wings of existential dread
Of course, I don’t have a cock to go with my frock and rock, but I guess I could take a toy one with me. Or possibly a mini-Beyonce.
Quit horning in, you.
Anyway, I tend to find birthdays largely embarrasing/terrifying/self-loathing-y, although I am aiming for better this year. It’s partially because
35 29 seems like a very grown-up age, and I am not so much with the grown-up and also terrible at lying about my age. Which is 35. It’s also because I see friends with amazing jobs doing awesome artistic things on teh Facebook and feel like I’m horribly behind and where has my life gone? even though I am doing things that probably sound similar if you’re not inside my head. I mean, I work for a major opera company in a position that I mostly quite enjoy and which leaves me creative juice for designing a show for an awesome theatre company, plus I have tens of readers here, but it’s easy to get caught up in feeling less than, so this year I shall aim not to.
Also, to pet a pony.