august 8, 2001. So. I'm turning 25 tomorrow. I don't know what I think about that. But there's a new idea that's supposed to cover my confusion - it's a book called something like the Quarter-Life Crisis. Supposedly, people of my birthyear are chronically depressed because they have too many options. This is one of the most bizarre things I have ever heard, right up there with Imagined Beauty Syndrome, where one tragically considers oneself to be more beautiful than one actually is. Imagined Beauty Syndrome - or IBS, natch - is said to come from happy childhoods with lots of love and acceptance. Happy childhoods? I shudder at the thought. I'm glad that this has finally been identified as one of the foremost plagues ravaging today's society. Anyhoo, I'm turning 25 tomorrow. What's funny is that I have most of the things that are supposed to make me happy - clean home, challenging career, lovely boy, surly cat - and I'm still going to be alone for most of my quarter-century day. Thanks to the Boy's exploitive work schedule and our relative social isolation, there will be no parties tomorrow (which is okay, as what would a poor girl like myself wear to all tomorrow's parties?) I think I'm even going to go into work, as that'll kill a good 8 hours of isolation. Besides, I might get a cake. I've done my level best to ignore my building-mates for the past 14 weeks; it should be amusing to get a card hypocritically signed by the whole staff. Wow. Looking over that last sentence makes me realize: I am the Bitch of Birthdays. Ah well. I spent last New Year's Eve asleep with a cold and I didn't die of shame. I suppose I'll survive if my birthday isn't fireworks, troubadours, candy, dancing girls, crazy group sex, swing bands, comic books, glitter, corsets, drugs, fencing duels, champagne, slave boys, chocolate, body shots & roses. I guess. this time last year: he promised to alert his minions. i replied that dust bunnies can't be considered minions, but he didn't think that was funny.