I'm not looking forward to the following week. Sunday has me at an engagement party where my parents want me polished up so they can start on my own engagement. They've got high hopes for an old world hook-up between me and a friend of the family's son. I wonder if a dowry will be included and how many horses I'm worth. Please say ten.
Thursday is a trip to the dentist, who I abhor. I have nothing against the person, just their profession. My fear of going to the dentist is so bad that I will let you push me down a flight of stairs. I will let you slug me across the face or even gently hit me with a car.
Then my birthday on Saturday. Granted, I'm going to Disneyland, but still, I hate my birthday and hate the fact I'm turning 24. 23 was such a good number, not so much a good year, but a good number. When I hit 30, I think I might cry. Strike that and reverse it, 23 was a good year. I got a job, reconciled with an old friend and made a new one, and went to Europe.
Somebody just hit me with a bat right now and let me sleep till Saturday. Just wake me up so I can strap myself on at Space Mountain.
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