A Very Lucky Girl

That's the number of Facebook "friends" that I currently have. I've chopped it down a LOT. It used to be over 1100. In fact, it may have even been 1111 at one point, because I remember trying to keep it that way for a while. Did I mention I have too much time on my hands? Did I also mention that it's three am and I can't sleep? I hate being awake right now, but I figured I might as well blog.  Anyway, back to the 971. It is dwindling everyday because I heard this genius idea from a friend a few months back. Everyday Mark Zuckerberg kindly informs me, in the upper right hand corner of my news feed, of all of my friends that were born on said day. And everyday, if wishing them a Happy Birthday would be awkward for one, or both, of us, I delete them. It's nothing personal; in fact, you should feel blessed that A Very Lucky Girl is no longer creeping on your life and judging you based on your timeline. Because I unashamedly do that sometimes. 

Birthdays are awkward. Especially your own. To want to celebrate it makes you an attention whore. To ignore it is a depressing hermit feature. Birthdays change so much as you grow up. When you're five you get the cool party hats, princess decorations, and blow horns to commemorate the next year of life. Thirteen brings you to the magical age of teenage-dom (a kingdom that I am now no longer considered a part of) and you still gather your friends for a pool party. Sweet Sixteen is ostentatious to celebrate the fact that you have been given legal access to a dangerous machine. Eighteen is the time that you buy cigarettes just because you can or blow all your birthday money at the casino (Oakes can relate, he's been on a casino kick recently) and then go to the club to see what it's all about. But by the time you've reached the older years, big giant celebrations aren't really on the agenda. At least not for me.  I started off my twentieth y...