Shit. I forgot to remember the dead veterans.

This guy hates me.

Oh no. I’m a horrible American. Today was the day specifically set aside for remembering fallen soldiers, and I totally dropped the ball. I saw a dog wearing a yellow ribbon plus several girls in American flag bikinis, and still I did not at all say or think about my fellow patriots who gave their lives so I could frolic freely on the beach or cower at my desk, freaking out about what to write next.

I should be fired from America. But, then again, I’m simply sticking to the new age values I learned last year, which include living in the moment. I try to spend some of the day really concentrating on not thinking of the past or future. Memories are dangerous. They can be good. Like when you’re mad at your friend and you remember the time in 1992 when she lent you her brand new see-through blouse from Contempo Casuals. In times like those, memories mean forgiveness.

But then there are the other times. The times when memory means pain and embarrassment:

1. In mid conversation. When you’re talking to a coworker about how much you hate the name ‘Siobhan’ because you just don’t get it and can’t figure out how to even say it. And then the ol’ memory chimes in to tell you that the coworker’s daughter is...yep... Siobhan. Note: This also occurs when gossiping about gay people or being racist.

2. During sex. You’re almost there. Everything’s going swimmingly, and then you remember you have an 8am conference call the next morning. Don't even kid yourself. Just get up right then and start ironing your outfit.

3. When it’s too late. You remember using the stove this morning. But you can’t really remember if you turned it off. But you’re already in your office parking lot and can’t go back. So you worry about it all day. Thanks a lot, Memory.

4. Comparisons. You’re with your new boyfriend at the movies. He doesn’t drink sodas, and he’s brought some almonds and granola to snack on. This is why you like him. He’s healthy. And can plan ahead. But you find yourself dwelling on the memory of your ex boyfriend who used to get a big Cherry Coke with two straws and a box of Dots and popcorn that he would pair up with the Dots and you would fight over the green ones and, man, those were the days. And you kinda want to text him from the bathroom.

5. Unexpectedly. You’re driving down Sunset Boulevard and you see an ad for a movie starring Robert Duval, who was your grandma’s favorite. And you reach for the phone to call her before you realize it’s been two years since she died. And you’re suddenly spilling tears all over your car and yelling ‘Why? Why? Why?’ to your steering wheel.

6. When it’s creepy. You remember meeting this girl at a party years ago, and you go say hi but she doesn’t remember you at all, which is totally fine because you look like a lot of people and that can sometimes be confusing. Unfortunately, you remember everything, and you say, "You had just gotten your appendix out when we met.... How’s that going? And how about those cooking classes? Did you finish those? Oh, and you mentioned something about your mother not respecting you. Have you resolved that issue with her?" You’re the weirdo for having a good memory. (Rahul does this all the time, which is why I’m scared to tell him anything about myself.)

7. Upon inconvenience. You remember something so good and juicy and hilarious that you must write it down, but you don’t have a pen. And you promise yourself you’re going to remember this later but you rarely do. This case is most prevalent with jokes and names of people you are supposed to email.

When memory doesn't show up, it's bad as well-- its lack often proving quite inconvenient: You want to sound really smart but you can’t remember a big vocabulary word. You forget to take your lunch to work even though you left it right in front of the door so you wouldn’t forget to take it. You can’t remember someone’s name after you’ve already sat at a dinner table with him for hours, and the time threshold of re-asking has already passed.

It's a frightening enigma, memory is. And I take the stand that Americans should not mess with memorializing. I think it’s plain rude that our country would ask us to delve into our memories on a day like today. Today is not for remembering. Today is for letting the world know that it’s now okay to wear white. So, go forth. In white pants and white tunics and white socks. And think not about the past. Unless the recent past includes you painting a bench. You should definitely remember if you just painted a bench so that you don’t go about ruining your new white pants.

2009: I love your oddness and all that stuff I did during you.

Remember that trip I went on? It was that really fun and soul-searching one that had me skipping through Southeast Asia, India, and strange places like Papua New Guinea? Lasted about 9 months?
It’s over!
I know it’s been over for a while. I know this.
But I still can’t believe it. It consumed me for all of 2008 and 2009.
Now that I’m unemployed again, I’ve had time to reflect on 2010. It’s gone so fast. And furious. Not really furious. But fast. And busy. And where did it all go? I don’t know, but I already miss it. And I miss 2009. And I know I’m not supposed to dwell on the past, but I must indulge, just this one time. This one tiny time. Ok, along with several other times because the past is what brought me to right now, and I'm pretty psyched about right now even though I pretend to complain about it. I wrote this poem on the road. And, now, here is my updated response:

I miss being a foreigner.
But it’s nice to talk about grilling and Legos and have people understand.

I miss being detached from everything.
But knowing the details makes me feel important.

I miss having absolutely no responsibility.
But it feels grown-up to be responsible.

I miss getting lost on purpose.
But I secretly love my iPhone GPS.

I miss monks.
Yes, actually I really miss monks.

I miss being able to bargain for every single thing.
But I don’t miss bargaining for every single thing.

I miss making instant new friends every day.
But there’s nothing like sharing wine with old friends.

I miss trusting total strangers.
Oh wait, I still do that.

I miss not knowing what celebrities are doing.
Why am I obsessed with Spencer and Heidi? Please help.

I miss being completely unfindable.
But I also like hiding in my own bed.

I miss wearing the same thing every day.
Oh wait, I still do that too.

I miss the unbridled curiosity about me and my country.
But it’s nice to walk to a store without anyone asking a question. Sometimes.

I miss forgetting what day it is.
I'm pretty sure it's Thursday.

I miss not worrying about my career or the future or finances.
Maybe I should stop doing that now.

I miss not knowing where I’m going until I step outside.
But I vow to do that more often.

I miss big fat meals of stuff I’ve never heard of for three bucks.

And strong Asian women who want to take me under their wings.

And reading entire books on long bus trips.

And real, silent wilderness.

And trains filled with curious people who share food and smiles.

And hour-long conversations in the language of hand gestures.

And I just miss Traveling. I miss the whole damn thing. But I’ll see it again soon.

For now: Living by the beach & Souplantation it is. I know a few guys here in Venice who speak only in hand gestures anyway, so it's almost like Traveling.

Yeah, that's me in 2009. Me and my friend, The Great Barrier Reef. Now I'm drinking coffee and listening to hipsters talk about their bicycles.

I'll be signing autographs by the Minestrone.

Congratulations! Today, you are reading the blog of The Most Versatile Blogger. Yes, I am THE big winner of THE biggest prize among the blogging community! What, What? Makes a girl wanna use some exclamation points!!!!!! Some people are saying that this prestigious award is more of a chain letter because it really involves any awarded blogger to award fifteen other bloggers, creating sort of a chain, er, community. Those people are jealous rats. This award is big time, and I will wear it proudly like I wear my special occasion expensive shoes and my high school graduation ring. Just kidding. I don’t really wear that. (Sorry for begging you to buy that for me, Mom.) So what if pretty much every blogger on the internet is about to receive the same award? So what if anyone with a blog can award anyone else with a blog? This is my time, dammit. Today, I am The Most Versatile Blogger, and that’s how it goes. I win, bitches! I win. I win. I win.

My duties as winner are to:
*thank the person who gave me this award.
*share seven things about myself.
*pass the award along to 15 bloggers who I deem fantastic.
*gloat all day long

Jessica at Alone with Cats & Margaret at The Crymes Syndicate have both awarded me such prestige. Well, Margaret awarded anyone who read her blog, which means ME. If you also want this award, all you have to do is read her blog. But don’t tell me that because I might not feel so special then.
These girls are both candid and hilarious, and I encourage everyone to check them out. I have just recently come to learn about this huge world of bloggers who support each other and read each others entries. These chicks have been so welcoming and encouraging and supportive. I hope I get to meet them one day, so I don't feel like a internet psycho for loving them through cyberspace.

Now on to the seven things about myself, as if this blog wasn't already shrouded in self-importance.

1. I prefer bar soap to the fancy shmancy ‘body wash.’

2. I’m currently taking a stand-up comedy class. That’s right. You will all soon be obligated to come see me at an open mic, where I will be raunchy and revealing and make you squirm in your seat. Especially when you realize I’m making jokes about you.

3. My father committed suicide. I guess that’s not so funny, but it’s also not so horrible either. You know that weird feeling you got when you read that? Sort of discomfort mixed with sorrow and helplessness and a lack of words accompanied by some awkward fidgeting? That’s how most people react, but it’s my new mission to end the bad stigma. Suicide is simply another accident, like a car crash. The person committing the act would surely take it back if he could.

4. My first job was at a local video rental place, where I rented porn to old men who would return it (to me, not to the drop box) after a few hours. Gross.

5. I’m writing from Souplantation, an all-you-can-eat buffet with horrific carpeting. I can’t seem to write at home-- too distracted by the food in my fridge and the surfaces that need dusting. For some reason, the array of muffins and soups helps me think.

6. I like my age now. And I can’t wait to be a really cute old lady a la Betty White. What’s in the middle scares the shit out of me.

7. People often ask me how I’m always so happy (well, after my trip they do.). I think the secret is that I love and trust everyone at first sight. Until they prove to me otherwise. None of this ‘gain my love shit.’ If I know you, I love you. For example, the couple in their fifties beside me with 3 plates each heaped in foods from the buffet. They’re both wearing sunglasses inside. And then there’s the Jewish couple passing out cookies to everyone and trying to make new friends. Love. Love. Love them.

8. If I didn’t have to pay off my student loans, I'd be in a hut in Africa, where I would be on a mission to help lots of people and educate about AIDS. I wouldn't stop writing this here blog, though. It's kinda my favorite thing to do. Thanks for reading it.

9. I think it would be cool to have a glass eye.

10. If I could be any age, I'd pick 3.

Aw naw. That's 10 things. Cannot get enough of writing about myself. Me. Me. Me.

And now on to the new winners, who must claim their prize tomorrow so as not to interrupt my gloating (also, if you decide not to accept this chain letter, er, award, I won't be offended): Rahul @ I Wear T-Shirts... Sometimes, Loralee @ Glass Half Optimistic, Rebecca @ Loving Living Small, Dewan @ Imperfect Enjoyment (buy his book too), Kelly @ IbbyDibbyDow, Rich @ Round Seventeen, Ernessa @ Fierce And Nerdy, Metalia @ Metalia, Sabrina @ Leap And the Mosquito Net Will Appear, Ann @ Dr. Strangemom, Kathy @ Mama Kat's Losin It, and really anyone else who wants some props. I'm just getting into this whole reading-other-people's-blogs thing. So make some suggestions as well. These are also good ones who've already had this illustrious honor bestowed upon them: The Pretend Writer, Best of Fates, Midwestern MamaH, Bite the Bedbugs

Uh oh. Gotta go. I see some paparazzi by the mac-n-cheese. I'm big time, y'all.

Animals are funny too.

I went to the zoo!
Is it weird that I just want to be tickled by an elephant's trunk? Next birthday, I would please like one elephant tickling. Unless this is a weird fetish I haven't heard of and it requires I wear crotchless panties and mauve body paint. Then forget it.

Elephant butts are funny too. This guy has a spot of poo on his butt. He doesn't seem to care. I want to be just like elephants. You can learn a lot from their nonchalance.

Haha! Turtles are such exhibitionists. Hey wait... do you smell something? Oh, that's poo on my butt. Being just like elephants is not working out.

I learned that gibbons and cranes are monogamous. This made me wonder if gibbons and cranes also argue over when to have sex and complain about their in-laws.

Aw shit. Glen wants to have sex. What should I tell him? Shitshitshit. Um... Glen, I 've got too much on my mind...and I'm not feeling sexy at all...didn't shave.

If Leonard's mother comments on my feathers one more time, I'm walking out.
(alt: I'm flying out. Not sure if cranes fly. I should look that up.)

I wish we all had skin like giraffes so that nobody would be either black or white. But then we'd all be the same, so that would be boring. Forget I said anything.

Beware of the love caused by sweater terriers.

It was a time when love mattered most: Addison, Illinois. 1990. Me. A Latin Lover with hair gelled to look like a bird’s nest. A freckly fresh-faced boy aggressive with his lips. A love triangle.

The echoed hallways of Fullerton Elementary.
As I debated with the Latin Lover over whether Brandon Walsh should really go for Andrea Zuckerman, Freckle Face interrupted.

“All right, Laurenne,” he said. “You have to choose.”

I threw him a look of despair. “Choose?”
I began to sweat and could feel the tears about to plunge from my eyes. “Choose? That’s like asking me to choose between air [dramatic pause]... and water.”

The Latin Lover, perplexed, ruffled his bird's nest hair. “You mean you’re in love with both of us?”

There was a long silence. “Yes,” I said. “Yes. My fourth-grade heart beats for you both.”

Upon hearing the truth, my saddened lovers retreated to their classrooms. I fell to the floor, my heart screaming. It yelled to me that it burned for them both equally. But something... some unearthly element enveloped my soul and said, ‘Freckles. Freckles!’ So, I listened. Not to my heart but to my guiding light, the light that said, ‘You must invite Freckles to your New Kids on the Block party this weekend.’

And that I did. It was a decision I would regret for eternity.

A nightmare ensued that night. As I embraced the screen to see if I could feel Jordan Knight’s fluffy locks through the nineties pay-per-view technology, a hardened jealousy overtook my fresh-faced lover and his aggression reared. He stormed out, never to be seen again.

But it was too late. The Latin Lover wouldn’t take me back. And he, too, stormed out of my life.

Both true loves were gone. Gone! My air and my water had vanished. Without a trace. (try repeating that really dramatically) Without a trace.

Until 2010.

That’s right. They’ve both reappeared, and I can finally breathe again. Breathe again. Yes, I can finally breathe again.

And I owe it all... to Facebook. I have to say that I haven’t been quite a fan of Facebook up until now. I like it and all, but I have calculated that it has stolen 4,561 hours of my time since its invention. I would have been an astronaut and have 12 best-sellers by now if Facebook had never come to town. Do I really care that a coworker from 4 jobs ago is drinking a PBR on the beach? Or how awesome your wedding was even though I haven’t spoken to you since kindergarten? Yes, I guess I do. Because there I go looking at your pictures. In fact, Facebook has distracted me away from so many thi--

But I’ve put that all aside because I now see the reason Facebook was invented: to finally reunite me with the true passion of my fourth-grade love. Freckles lives in Buffalo and the Latin Lover sells phones not far from my hometown. Both have girlfriends and don’t seem at all interested in talking with me about whether or not Brandon Walsh should have ended up with Andrea Zuckerman. I thought you were supposed to look back at life in hindsight and share the true knowledge that twenty years can bring.

Sigh.

At least I have my closure. I have been waiting all these years, putting off marriage and relationships and love in the case that these lovers reappear. And now that they’re back, I can finally move on. Thanks, Facebook. Thank you.

Adrian and Jesse: If either of you want to watch a NKOTB concert, I’m here. I’ll always be here. With a VHS.

Of course I was caught in a love triangle! Amazing hat, hair to match, and terriers on my sweater.

I got too cool for diaries by the time of the triangle, but this illustrates what a romantic I was: Thanksgiving 1987. Weather: sunny I Love and Like Robbie he looks at me all thru school oooo I love him. But he Dosen't no it. I think he likes me to. (smiley face) he's kind of cute Robbie always plays football after lunch outside. I love you Robbie Amy likes you to but she moved Cari like's you but she to young I'm just Right [Incidentally, Robbie never reciprocated my beautiful love. Burn.]

If you buy culottes at noon on a Tuesday, I will hex you.

I’m unemployed again.
Yay!
I was able to hold a job for three weeks.
This time, I didn’t technically get fired like I did here. But my job ‘ended early,’ as they say. Actually they don’t say, but whatever. The point is that I’m back to sitting in cafes and eavesdropping.

Some great quotes so far:

“This song is Timbaland with Elton John! Elton John is getting good.”
“If I take off my fairy costume, the magic is over.” (you must imagine the silky pastel dress that accompanied this comment.)
“Should we get a breakfast burrito and roll the bootie dice?”

Bootie Dice? Gross.

Yesterday I decided not to head into a coffeehouse because I realized that spending ten bucks for hipster coffee from Papua New Guinea every day is really stupid when I’m on an unemployment budget. Plus, I know those guys in Papua New Guinea and they would never charge me 10 bucks a day for a couple coffees. Actually, they would ask me for 10 bucks a day and I would artfully whittle them down to at least 8.50.

Instead, I took myself to Border’s in the mall. And man all mighty, the mall parking lot was full. FULL. At 11:30am on a Tuesday. Packed cafes and crowded malls: What is it that I’m not getting? There’s a secret society of the self-employed in LA and none will let me in. What is the fucking secret? How do these people earn livings and never have to walk into a cubicle?

I saw a gaggle of women excitedly exiting Nordstrom Rack, and I yelled to them, ‘Hey ladies! How do you make money? How do you live in this city and pay your bills and your damn student loans and still laugh your morning away in Nordstrom Rack looking for deals on Laura Ashley culottes? How do you do it?’
They ran away from me.
But I put a hex on them, yes I did. Who’s smiling now, middle aged shoppers? Who?

Then I made some guesses:

1. These people have no shame in acquiring sugar daddies or mommas. If this is the case, I have very much no future in being a woman of leisure. I can’t do it. I feel guilty when my mom pays for me. There’s no way I could actually let a man say, ‘Baby, don’t work anymore. I’ll pay for everything.’ Gross. I would feel like I owed this man something-- that I had to give him blow jobs on command. I would hate that. Sometimes I’m tired after work and I just don’t want to. Oh, wait. I wouldn’t be working. Option #1 now open for possibility.

2. These people are involved in a pyramid scheme and/or they sell knives door-to-door and make their own hours. Not doing that.

3.These people are on unemployment and/or welfare, which they are spending at Nordstrom Rack. No matter the dire circumstances of your finances, you gotta have nice throw pillows and a discounted designer pump. I get it. But I don’t qualify for either.

4.These people have answered those ‘work from home’ ads on the internet that claim ‘total financial independence from your living room.’ Those ads weren’t a scam? Fuck. I could have been stuffing envelopes for years at my own leisure. Will look into this.

5.These people don’t have any student loans or bills because their parents have paid for everything for them. That’s not an accomplishment, assholes.

6.These people are bartenders, actors, and models who work at night or don’t work at all and have only a couch from Goodwill and a bag of Cheetos in the apartment they share with 3 other people. Not into it. I need my couch from Macy’s.

7.These people have very successful blogs which they write every morning really early. And they’re funny and they have tons and tons of visitors who send their link to their friends and get even more traffic. And they make great big salaries based on ad revenue and writing opportunities, and all they have to do is write an entry every single day that makes people peel over in laughter, as evidenced by this woman. Oh, I can’t even think about these people because my skin begins to boil from hot jealousy.

One day I will figure it out. One day. For now, I will head back to the cafe. Maybe if I eavesdrop for long enough, someone from the secret society will accidentally spill the 10-dollar beans.

Yeah, rice. Get fluffy already.

Don’t homeless people actually seem like they really have it all?

Why won’t rice just hurry up?

Why don't people call TV 'the boob tube' so much anymore? I wish they did.

If my last name was 'Case,' would I be hilarious or horrible for naming my son 'Justin?'

Do hand models get to skip the line at dance clubs like real models do?

What is the point of iceberg lettuce?

Why the constant need to think of something new? Can't we just stick to Ford Escorts and step aerobics?

Are blind people really good at hide-and-seek?

I wonder if humans seem to dogs what giraffes seem to humans...? You know, because of the height and the angle.

Is it really necessary to count threads?

When will Whoopi Goldberg age?

Why do they say not to talk with food in our mouths, but every time we want to talk about stuff, we meet for lunch or dinner?

Isn't it crazy how, for the same amount of money, we can send a box across the country overnight, buy a gourmet chocolate, or feed a baby in Liberia for a week?

Does the guy who caught me shoplifting at JC Penney that one time still think of me as much as I think of him?

Why don’t animals like me as much as I like them?

Why does so much hair come out in the shower?

Do snakes ever get bored with eating? Swallowing stuff whole must take a long time.

Why do people so often say ‘by the way’ when introducing themselves? I don't want to know that you know how to say 'by the way.' I just want to know your name.

If I put asparagus down the garbage disposal, will the water smell weird?

I'm naked.

Yeah. It’s true. I’m writing this naked. I’m telling you this not in an aw-yeah-baby-I’m-naked kinda way, but in more of a yippee-I’m-untethered-by-clothes kinda way. More than that, I’m also poolside, eating a monstrous slice of melting red velvet cake, and reading a gossip magazine under the fluttering hummingbirds and spotlight sun of serene Palm Springs.

This is what turning 30 is all about: A birthday suit in a private yard. No one can see me. And nobody knows that my ass is red not only from the sun but from 10-12 high-intensity cannon balls (Incidentally, I did not actually wake up in a cannon; I simply performed skilled cannon-like jumps into the deep end.).

I deserve this because this is where I spent my birthday last year: asleep on a cement bed under a mosquito net, not even allowed to be naked in the shower (monks can be such a drag sometimes). But now I’m balls out. And that’s what life is all about. Hey! Finally I’m making a contribution to quote boards throughout the internet: ‘Balls out. It’s what life is all about.’ Spread the word. Please.

What life is not about is whining. And I must apologize for being so whiney about entering this 4th decade of life. I hate those girls I occasionally meet in bars who say, ‘Oh my Gawd! I’m totally turning 21 tonight! I’m so old.’ And now I see I’ve been doing the same. So, I apologize. But not really. Because turning 30 is a big friggin deal and deserves nudity and cake. Balls out, baby. Balls out.

Note: I was not Nudey McNudle when my friends were here. That would have been awkward.

Please note: 'Balls out' is merely an expression. I do not actually have balls.

Also note: Meredith Buzas shot this amazing promo photo for Fox's newest show, 'I want to get naked in front of my friends but it might be awkward because we're really comfortable with each other but mainly boob comfortable and not vagina comfortable yet.'

It's here. F.

I’m about to enter the fourth decade of my life. Tomorrow. TOMORROW!

I have tried unsuccessfully to halt time with my mind power. Remember how I wrote here about how it’s really no big deal and I’m ready to embrace it? Well, I changed my mind. I’m suddenly uncomfortable with the thought. I know: It’s just a number. And everyone who lives to at least 31 goes through it. But I’ve noticed a few things happening to me that nobody else seems to be talking about. Those who hit 30 don’t tell the whole story. It’s like the birthing process. After you have gone through it, you say, ‘Oh, it’s not so bad after all. Tee hee hee.’ But that’s because you’re blinded by a cute little baby and plenty of drugs. So you keep mum about the fact that you laid out a hot turd on the table, and then your friend freaks out because she thinks she’s disgusting when she lays out a hot turd on the table. Guys, we gotta tell each other this stuff. For each other. For mankind.

So here are some things that have been happening to me...Er, I mean... They’re happening to a friend of mine. And I heard about them. So I am going to just pass them on. For the children:

1. Random hairs. Thankfully, I am not a man, so they aren’t yet coming out of my ears. But they are popping up in the most random spots. I pulled a big black one from my stomach right now. And another off my chin yesterday. My chin. I mean, my friend did that. Yeah, not me.

2. Adult acne. We’ve covered this. I read up on it. Estrogen levels begin to drop at 29.5, according to Marie Claire. Great. Lovely. Thanks.

3. Bones. Whenever my right knee bends, it sounds like a newborn chick is crunching itself out of its shell and vomiting. Yes, that’s exactly the sound.

4. Metabolism. I used to wish myself skinny, and I’d be skinny. Now, my hips just grow.

5. Cellulite. Yep. There’s more of it. Either it’s because I’m getting older or perhaps it’s because I spent the last year eating absolutely anything I wanted. I mean, that’s what my friend did. And said.

6. Brain. I claim to be such a grammar and spelling stickler but lately that shit comes out all wrong. I spelled ‘zoo’ z-e-w the other day. Zew? Is that a gross version of the zoo?

Ok, so there. It’s out there. Unlike those before me, I have laid it all out for those who come after: 6 reasons why 30 IS BAD despite the fact that everyone says it’s not so bad.

Time for the positive spin. Because that’s who I’ve become in this old age: a quite positive gal. Thankfully I didn’t become a janitor or ice cream man, the two professions in which I hoped to succeed back when my 8-yr-old self was dreaming about my 30-yr-old self. Ice cream man would have required a sex change, and I’m saving that until at least 55 (I want to get as much vagina action as possible beforehand). Oh yeah, positive spin: Six reasons I am ecstatic about turning 30:

1. I don’t have to go to any more tailgates, red cup parties, or beer pong events. Sure, thirty-yr-olds do those things. But I don’t like standing around, getting wasted, spilling beer on myself, and talking about sports or who I know. I’ve never really liked it, and everyone’s always given me shit about not partaking. Now that I’m thirty, I finally qualify for the ‘too old for that shit’ excuse.

2. By now, I have learned to trust myself. Phew. What a relief. Life’s gonna be just fine (And if it isn’t, I have a new theory about what happens after life; I’ll get to this some day when we have more time and we're a little tipsy and it seems like there's nothing else to talk about.).

3. The next ten years are filled with absolute possibility. I’m reading a choose-your-own-adventure, and the amount of adventure before me is overwhelming in the best possible way. Shit’s gonna happen, y’all.

4. Thirty is serious. People will hear that I’ve made it into the secret club of thirty and really want to take me seriously. Maybe, you know, someone might say... “Hey, Laurenne. You’re 30. You want to write for the Sarah Silverman show?” or perhaps, “Wow! You’re 30? I’m a literary agent, and I’ve been looking for a thirty-yr-old to write a very popular book series that will lead to movies and action figures.”

5. I’ve been contributing quite nicely to social security for 16 years. I’m not rich, but it’s nice that I no longer have to share a bed with five girls when we go on vacation or ask for a cup for water and then fill it with Coke or say, ‘Well, your tacos were two dollars more than mine’ when splitting a bill or ask friends for gas money. Finances of the early twenties sucked.

6. I have been alive 10,950 days. That’s some serious experience up in this here noggin. I have heard, read, seen, smelled, and touched a whole lotta stuff. I know what’s up. Yep, I know what’s up.

After all, I guess 30 is cool. What up, Thirty? How are you today? Come on in. I accept you and all that you are. Except for the chin hairs and cellulite. Please. Give those to Forty, and we’ll be all good.