So to experiment: Keywords: "Saggy Bags, Birthdays, Hovercraft"

I have a very smart brother who knows how to do very nifty things with the internet. The other day he was kind enough to look up which pages were viewed the most in this blog.

The top two didn't really surprise me. "Why not to shave your pussy" and "Freeze it's a stick up your butt" both have an erotic twang to them, and might be of particular interest to genetalia afficionados in general. The third one, however, was called "The Case of the Receding Eyebrow".

And so I guess there's something for everyone, and that's nice.



But why judge. I once knew a guy who was turned on by women with lazy eyes. I can understand this. There's something sexy about a woman who could be looking at you, or the greased-up, juggling naked hunk to your left. Given her condition she could be dedicating one eye to each one of you. How exciting for you! There is an air of unpredictability surrounding these people, and it is this unpredictability, rather than the (strabismic, anisometropic, or occlusion) amblyopia - that I guess is pretty hot.

Something that's NOT for everyone is turning 29. And fine, okay, maybe you had a little sister who got cancer and didn't make it past 28 and boy would TWENTYNINE have been a blessing to her - THEN maybe THEN is 29 a useful age. But I wish somehow that I could have just skipped to thirty. Because I know what I will have accomplished by the time I'm 30.

I will have written a best selling novel , gotten my PhD and I will have had a record go platinum by word of mouth alone, before the record has even been recorded, that's how amazing I will be.

29? It brings with it not so much. Except for the realization that what you've done in life amounts to about $2:50. That, and the horrible realization that you can't call the extra weight around your mid section "baby-fat" anymore. But that that's okay because you're also one year closer to hiding this bulge with your increasingly vertical breasts.

But to be honest, these pangs of fear and regret that accompanies every birthday is nothing new. It hit me when I was 20, and it's going to get me a brand new hover-Porsche when 40 rolls around. So when it all boils down, becoming one year older is just not that much big of a deal.

So Happy Birthday Me, and buck the fuck up. Try to stay away from the cake tonight, your breasts aren't quite there juuuust yet. There's comfort in that.