6:47 p.m. - March 28, 2002
12:03 CST
I'm writing this from the only computer at work that still has internet access after our DSL blew out. (People kept asking me today what I was doing for fun on my birthday. I said 'working'. They smiled, nodded, and went along their way.) I turned eighteen at 12:03 PM, CST, in the student center sitting on one of those prison block-esque 'couches', eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, cheddar Chex mix, and nachos, watching Erik and Mary nuzzle, which is the only way to describe what they do nearly all the time, talking to Camille and Mike, wearing a green Vandoren shirt and green khakis and brown hiking shoes. My hair is half-red, half-blond. I like shrimp. Eighteen years ago I was a screaming red ball of flesh.

It was special at work, though, as special as it could have been with four people and four cakes, and very swollen stomachs. Everyone brought me food for my birthday, and a chocolate cake with candles and a key lime pie and cookies and cookies and more cookies, Camille-baked and Paul-baked. Lorrie had candles, so we had a party in the storage room. They were trick candles, so we almost set the place on fire with the sparks. It would have been a brass inferno, key pads and mouthpieces flying. Eventually she just dropped them in a glass of water. Three brass players, a saxophonist, a violinist, and my mother, the guitarist, couldn't blow them out.

So I feel loved, I guess.

I found a prom dress I liked, but it didn't come in a big enough size. Such is the story of my life. Pants-turned-highwaters, minidress-turned-tank tops. My body is simply too long for its own good.

I watched a Clockwork Orange again. It was better the first time.

Might anyone know where I could find exhilaration, cheap?

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