I had a splendid eighteenth birthday. I got books (like any self-respecting nerd) and the new iPhone, which is a great improvement upon my old haunted LG Reality. (Seriously. It switched my wallpaper and ringtone when I was least expecting it, and sometimes, in the middle of night, it turned itself on or lit up for no apparent reason. I tried to commune with the spirit inside it, but no dice.)
Now I’m thinking of past birthdays. Like when I was eight and I made cupcakes for everyone at school, and I handed one out to everyone, and then handed one out to all my favorite teachers, and then I realized I’d forgotten to leave one for myself. I pretended I did that on purpose.
Or my eleventh birthday, when I had an underwater-themed party.
Or my sweet sixteen, when I had this glow bowling bananza and a guy I barely knew came up and hugged me. He was cute. There’s photographic evidence.
Or my fifteenth, when I had to run the mile in gym and ran into a pole.
Or my seventeenth, during which I realized there’s a veritable plethora of people with the same birthday. We should form a club.
Or my ninth, when I was in Florida with my grandparents and I threw up in their sink.