T minus 365 days until quarter life crisis.

Today is my birthday. I am 24 years old going on a fuckin' 100. I keep forgetting how old I am and when people ask me I have to stop and think about it. Either I wish I was aging backwards or I am really forgetful, or possibly a bit of both. The past couple of "how old are you?" questions I've answered with "68, I think." That would be more appropriate because I'm an old bitty or at least I act like one. I will probably be one of those old ladies with a cane and will hit everyone with it. I guess the one thing I look forward to in old age is being crazy and being able to get away with being a complete and utter bitch.

So, somehow I got voted into cooking my own dinner and baking my own damn cake. I'm not quite sure how that happened but it happened. It all started out with an e-mail from my mom saying that my grandma called and is expecting to come over for my birthday dinner, followed by suggestions on what I should make. "Vieja really likes your sweet BBQ ribs" was in that e-mail somewhere and so I guess I had no choice. My mom is like an evil dictator that's rather coy and manipulative. I hope to one day perfect her skills but for now I will sit here and grumble and be irritable. I would almost rather have butt-itch right now like my Skarepack did last night.

Dom had planned on taking me to brunch and spending the day with me then going out to a casual dinner but just spending the day together and having fun. We also planned on seeing my horse today for the first time in months because she has someone coming out to try her and we are hoping for the best, but I have to stay here and cook. Awesome, really. My all-day date with my Boo Boo has been postponed until tomorrow but I'm sour because I like spending Sundays in bed and doing absolutely nothing other than be a complete bum in my pajamas. I know some of you are thinking that I'm always a bum which is partially true but I am not always in pajamas nor am I always laying in bed.

For now, I am in my pajamas making BBQ ribs, marinating tri-tip and letting my cakes cool since I just pulled the layers out of the oven. I'm making a three layer dark chocolate cake withdark chocolate frosting. I ran out of unsweetened cocoa powder when making the cake so I should send Dom to go get some. However, I did humor myself last night. Last night at the market I bought some really odd candles for my cake. I bought barnyard animals, a gigantic question mark and the same candle at the top of the page. I also bought doggie-themed paper cups, napkins and paper plates. Again, appropriate because I'm a bitch. My mom complained about the candles and said my grandma will hate it but I say TOUGH SHIT BECAUSE I AM MAKING MY OWN DAMN CAKE THE WAY I WANT TO AND NO ONE HAS ANY DAMN SAY-SO ABOUT IT. IF YOU DO NOT LIKE MY CAKE YOU CAN SHOVE IT IN YOUR ASS.

Unfortunately, I can't really leave my house because my piece of crap "expensive" BBQ goes WHACKO all the time and it can't maintain a low level of heat and thinks that 21380912830912830912830981209 degrees is the only way to BBQ. Since I need my ribs at 225 degrees I constantly have to check on it. I chose the illustration on the right to show you how I feel about this mother fucking BBQ of mine. It is a pain in the ass and I hate it. Maybe for my birthday next year I will rent a car crusher for a day and stick both my BBQ and my truck in there, bring home my crushed pieces of metal and garbage, put it on my lawn and call it art.

I will now leave you with, "it's my party and I'll act like a bitch if I want to."