Michael Moorcock wrote an essay in 1989 called “Epic Pooh,” which likens Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings trilogy to a nursery tale ripe with conservative ideology. I read it today, and was shocked at how he manages to give voice to what was previously simply just a vaguely embarrassing and…
I think my friendship with Matty reached a disturbing level of intimacy when he gave me pointers on how to lick my own nipple last night. Sadly, I will never be the reigning showgirl that he is destined to become. Don’t forget about the little people when you’re hitting that Vegas stage with bejeweled nips, Matty.
Like, I can’t even begin with this birthday. This weekend has basically been “let’s test the limits of Meghan’s sanity and dependence on alcohol.”
First I find out my mom’s sick. Then I fight with her? Yah, makes sense. Full screaming fight outside my building with storming off and all the goods while my friend waits at the restaurant and has to explain that we won’t be needing that table for four after all.
Lost my ID, which made me loony because I REALLY wanted to go to the Biltmore and everything tonight? Right. Then it fucking falls on the floor from my closet like some kind of goddamned birthday miracle. Too bad I was already drinking my feelings.
Showed up at a house party in a sexy Mrs. Claus costume. Really.
Then I got what is possibly the greatest gift of all. “Hey I know I’m a dick, but it’s my birthday. Are you free tonight?” at three fucking thirty.
Thanks dude, you’ve given me my birthday motto. And sorry you didn’t get your birthday beej. I did.