The Birthday I Spent in a Crackhouse

My last birthday was a complete hellhole shit show. It was September 4th. I think I have sufficiently recovered to talk about it, even though I still kind of don't acknowledge that it really happened. I mentally called do-over, like a little kid who fucked up in four square. This has caused me to have a somewhat bizarre, awkward reaction when people ask me how old I am. Sometimes I stutter. I'm hoping this response fades with time, because it isn't very cute or convenient. Not enriching my life a whole lot, I don't think. Nope.

Birthdays are always weird for me, for many reasons, but this one definitely deserves a special mention. I felt it coming the way you can tell you're coming down with something.