last year, matt and i stood in the whitewashed light of 7-11, waiting for little red dots on a display to line up and prove it was midnight. when they slipped into place, i marched triumphantly to the counter to purchase the requisite collection: a playboy, a pack of lucky strikes and a scratcher. the cashier smiled and obediently asked for my ID. later that day i shoved a needle through my nose and left a little shiny ball; that weekend i jumped out of a perfectly good airplane.

this year i slept in late, worked on my design project, and spent some time at a friend's cinco de mayo party. several hours were devoted to reading.
all day people have been asking me what i did for my birthday, and i've been telling them "nothing."

i don't know if it's because i didn't have anything to do, or because i didn't have anything to prove.