I turned twenty-four on Sunday.
And you clearly forgot to buy me a gift, bitch.
Thankfully for your belated arse, the foil-paneled—and not to mention fucking phenomenal—Proenza Schouler maxi skirt (I have been totally Rachel Zoe–dying over it) was NOT ticked off my birthday wish list. So, ahh, no hard feelings about being late with my birthday present, doll—I guess now you know you can buy me the $2,302.54 metallic masterpiece. You’re welcome.
But, of course, this isn’t the main reason as to why I’m telling you about my twenty-fourth year of celebration. You see: I’m feeling rather nostalgic about the whole annual–aging–affair. Look, I get it, I am by no means a decrepit old fool—I can still orgasm multiple times a day and do youthful shit like that, thank God—but there’s something past-provoking about birthday numero ‘24’ that’s making me feel, well, like a sentimental ol’ sheila. It’s very out-of-character and very horrifying, I know … I’ve become THAT hideous hag who everyone hates. I judge me, too.
Oh, let me just clarify, darls: I’m still as fabulous as ever—we all know I couldn’t possibly be anything else—but I can’t help but think: where, oh where, did the years go?
Cue mysterious violin melody … now.
I can answer that question literally, of course—the years were lost in the lines I snorted (up the left nostril for luck, naturally), wasted in wine (red, purely for pretension), consumed in clubs, fatigued in flights (a woman must be worldly travelled, as we know) and many-a–year splurged in shops and sitting opposite a psychologist.
Oh, Good God! — okay, obviously reciting twenty-three years in a paragraph such as that—and pretending to hear those Goddamn violins—has now made me feel exactly like that hideous hag (I was clearly kidding the first time, I didn’t actually think I was like that cow). Fuckedy fuck! This cannot be happening: surely I’m not pining for a past that was filled with such heinousness, i.e. the drugs, the drunken behaviour … the depressed diva days! Surely not!
Excuse me for a tick doll, I need a cigarette …
*Insert sight–mental breakdown*
Right, okay, cigarette consumed (inhaled, whatever). Deepest apologies darls— it appears the disheveled damsel needs a dart on the not-so-odd occasion she freaks–the–fuck–out … it helps me get my shit together. I suppose now I know how the ol’ hag Britt Spears felt like when she first saw her reflection in the mirror after shaving her — oh darling! — hair off (back in the anything–but–private breakdown of ’07) … yep, I’m literally dying, too. Cringe.
Somewhat-similarly, I guess this birthday business of mine keeps, ahh, catching me off guard—and makes me feel frightfully naked, in not such a stellar way.
Yep: I’m feeling rather awkward about turning twenty-four (if you haven’t quite figured that one out yet). It just seems so mediocre, you know (obviously also in comparison with le years earlier summarised, Jesus). ‘24’ is not quite cute and not quite classy—somewhere between Gorman and Gucci, so to speak. And no one wants Gormucci, eww. At twenty-three I was totally cute—I lost count of the number of times unattractive-albeit-available men tried to get the lovable bitch’s number—and at twenty-five, honey, I’ll be classier than the Queen! (Wait, does the Queen have sex? I still plan to fuck and be classy, if you know what I mean. And NOT with the aforementioned men, mind you: I have standards.)
But twenty-four: it’s the middle-of-the-road in the middle-of-fucking-nowhere. Neither here nor there and I don’t know where that leaves me, or, more importantly, what outfit I should wear in such an unremarkable, uncomfortable place! Do I opt for the Bohemian I’ll-just-throw-on-whatever-and-hope-for-the-best look, or do I step into Chanel and pretend I’m more aged-and-elegant than I am?
You see: mediocre has never been my best ‘look’. Sure, I could pull it off if I wanted to (we all know I can pull off anything, duh), but it’s not something I’d opt to wear or choose to be—bland is never the new black, as they say. And this newly celebrated age feels; well, ever so boring. Let it be know: I’d much rather put metal tweezers in my eyeball than feel boring (note: I have actually had this happen before, and it sure as Cher ain’t pleasant).
So, in a bid to cull-the-dull, I assumed channeling la Nostalgic Nancy— looking back at the past with a sentimental longing generally reserved for those who are dying, or have defied logic and should be dead already—would have helped the bitch out. I obviously forgot that ‘the good old days’ were in fact, pretty shit.
And now—I blame you for forgetting my birthday and for the Goddamn birthday itself— I’m all too aware of being at a wearisome age with an altogether worrisome past. So thanks, you fucker. Looks like we’ve all been invited to a pity party hosted by none other than Yours Truly … someone pass us the wine a.s.a.p.!
Seriously though, back to the birthday thing—and speaking of parties—I didn’t have one. Yep: I figured the age of meh would be best celebrated by, ahh, non-celebration.
So I did what any party-pooper-boring-bitch would do: I woke up, silently cried and waited for a socially acceptable time to pour myself a wine (clearly I still have a thing for wine).
But, do you know what? The day actually turned out to be pretty entertaining, in a cruel-joke-kind-of-way.
You see: the darling’s mother gave her a microdermabrasion voucher—as in: an intense facial to remove dead skin cells and rejuvenate ‘youthful’ looking skin—and it was the perfect gift, truly (I had actually requested it). So not only did I get something I had actually asked for, the hilarity of receiving such an age-inappropriate gift thrilled me no end.
Plus my brother gave me pillows—every birthday girl needs such essentials for her beauty sleep—which happened to be brilliant, considering I passed out on them later that day. (Well done, brother.)
But the real merriment of the day—besides the wine, which contributed to passing out on new pillows, naturally—‘presented’ itself when my BFF convinced me to go out (more specifically: outside) and smoke ciggies with her. Yep: it became official. The backyard deck became the twenty-four year old’s disco. And, as hideous and old hag-esc as it sounds, it would have been the party I would have had, had I had one. Fresh air and chats (well, smoke–filled air and rants), and gifts that, well, kept on giving.
So I suppose now I have finally reached my point—if there were ever a point to writing this piece of nonsense at all (I just really like ranting, to be honest)—turning twenty-four (or any age for that matter) is only as bland as the person whose birthday it is. U-huh: darling, one can never be boring if they were never boring to begin with! And significance can be found in things that are seemingly insignificant, especially if you write about it, and force a poor sod, such as yourself, to read it. Oh and — God I’m pretty much a philosopher now! — the past is never as good as the present, you know: when you’re receiving presents.
Yep, you can write ‘Genius’ on the card when you send me my beautifully wrapped Proenza Schouler skirt.