I was feeling like a big pile of...well, birthday shit, and I didn't want to get out of bed at all. It started with this bizarre dream that I was undergoing some religious persecution and about to get shot. I had to decide whether to go after my assailant with a trashcan or offer myself instead of the others who were about to die with me.
This is heavy for a birthday morning. And a Monday morning.
And any morning.
Before I made any rash decisions, I decided to wake up.
Sick. Snot-nosed and phlegm-throated. HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME. I spent the rest of the day in a Sudafedhaze, following my mom and sister around various shopping complexes and sitting down whenever possible.
This shopping trip turned into a fever, which turned into a nap, and then coldest hot shower I have ever known.
After an artsy play and some trendy restaurant dining, Matt conducted me in a delirium to the place where I was served a second birthday shot. This time the shot contained alcohol, not condemnation.
And then a third (which, due to its volume and content, was more like machine gun fire than a shot). Perhaps I should have defended myself with a trash can or offered the drink to someone else...or offered to drink everyone else's.
The moral of the story (I just typed "shot" and almost left it...): birthday dreams are totally prophetic.
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