With my birthday less than a week away, and as the horrifying age of ** approaches like I would Kevin Bacon (barring the restraining order)… you know, slow at first as I don't want to startle him, but with increasing prowess and Kenny Loggins' "Footloose" playing in the background as I pounce… where was I going with this? I lost myself at Kevin Bacon. Bacon. Birthday.
Yes, my birthday is just around the corner, and I've been doing some serious contemplation as this is a milestone year for me: this is the year I turn 21. Okay, 23? 25? Alright, we'll say I'm 20.
Anyway, as I embark on this new journey through my life, I'm forced to remember previous birthdays and experiences that have led me up to who I am at this moment. The humiliations, the heartbreaks, the laughter, the tears. The time I chipped my right front tooth in half by face-planting into a pile of gravel after drinking half a bottle of Jager at a bonfire party back when AIM instant messenger was still the preferred method of communication for college students everywhere. (And then insisted on finding the chipped tooth amongst the rocks, so we could pack it on ice and take it with us to the hospital to be reattached.) (I didn't say I was smart while intoxicated.)
Needless to say, I have a few words of wisdom for my younger self that I would happily jump into a time machine and impart upon that confused, misguided, Hanson-loving-in-a-sexually-confused-kind-of-way girl. I'd time travel back to particular moments in my life where I feel advice would do more good than harm. As soon as I can bypass the whole quantum mechanics behind meeting yourself in the past/present/future without tearing a hole in the space-time continuum thing, that is. If there was such a thing as a time machine or time travel. And there's not. At least that the government acknowledges. (9/11 WAS AN INSIDE JOB.)
Anyway, I've conveniently written down a few choice pieces of said advice that I've also conveniently neatly placed into this article. Funny how that works. It's also funny how heroin works, but I don't question that either.
Okay, seriously, you can shit in your own pants and someone else will clean it up? Enjoy it. Bask in it, because if all goes according to plan, you won't be back in those diapers for another 80 years.
Show off those legs rolls. And back rolls. And the double chin. And that glorious FUPA. This is the only time in your life when people will find them cute.
Do NOT let your sister cut your bangs.
Do NOT let yourself cut your bangs.
You're going to be tempted to eat an entire package of Oreos one day while you're left unattended in the kitchen. You will then, 45 minutes later, puke up that entire package of Oreos all over your bed and your mother. It'll be a mess; a huge, disastrous, chocolatey, creamy, delicious… on second thought, go ahead and eat it. You're young and your metabolism will never be this awesome ever again. #worthit (That'll make more sense one day.)
There's going to be a morning in the summer, between kindergarten and first grade, when your mom sleeps in and you and your sister decide to have a tea party. Now, go ahead and have the tea party, but do not put a mug of water into the microwave, set it on five minutes, and then try to pour that water into one of your miniature tea sets. You will end up with third-degree burns all over the entire left side of your body. The skin grafts will be very painful and you won't be able to develop an even tan until you're at least 24… I mean, 18. And really, that's the true tragedy and the reason for this warning.
Put that fourth piece of cake back. Trust me, no amount of baked goods will ever fill that empty void left by Kimberly leaving the Power Rangers.
I don't care what your mother tells you, do NOT wear that hideous sweater to this year's Picture Day. Believe me when I say, you will look back on this moment with a half-cringe/half-shudder of sheer humiliation and horror. But DO hang onto that sweater so you can one day force your own children to wear it.
Drinking alone might seem really sad right now, but one day you'll grow to love it. This has nothing to do with this year of your life, but I just wanted you to know that now. It'll make the later years a bit more tolerable.
Your Hanson obsession is not endearing, it is creepy. Like, serial killer creepy. Put the Tiger Beat down and get a life.
After a class field trip to Camp Kern pretending to like everyone around you, you're going to come home for a weekend of relaxation. You're also going to climb a tree in the woods with your sister (I'm sensing a theme here… avoid hanging out with your sisters). Anyway, you're going to climb the tree and sit atop it while singing "Colors of the Wind" from Disney's Pocahontas. Only the tree you've climbed is unknowingly dead, and the branch snaps, and you end up 30 feet down, in a pile of sticks at the bottom, with your left armpit completely ripped out and a branch sticking through your leg (narrowly missing your femoral artery). Do me a favor: DO NOT, I repeat, DO NOT sing Pocahontas' "Colors of the Wind." At least do what any self-respecting fag hag would do and sing a memorable showtune. Seriously, get your shit together, Garmany.
Again, simple carbohydrates will not make you happy. Cookies and cake are no substitute for love. But sex is. So don't wait so long to do it. Aim for like, 15 or 16. Not 18 or 19 (which …was …totally only like, a year ago[?] if we're going by this timeline).
Congratulations, you're officially a teenager. The next five years of your life are going to be hell. Just let the cinematic wonderment that is Kevin Bacon guide you through these tumultuous times, and make friends with the weird theater kids.
Don't do it. You know what you're thinking of doing, and don't do it. No matter how good it might feel, don't do it. You are a strong, independent woman in her mid-20s, you have the whole world ahead of you. You're better than this. Oh wait, I mean…I'm 14 here (?) …so …stop trying to hide the braces, alright? You're going to have them for three years. Embrace it. Bedazzle it. And just be glad you don't have head gear (like your sister).
So you popped your marijuana cherry. Welcome to the first day of the rest of your life.
Well, you've got your license now. Guess that means DON'T DO IT. I know you're thinking about it again, and DON'T DO IT. Keep it in your pants, Garmany. And also, always use your blinker because that's just common curtesy.
Appreciate your parents more. Even if your mom made you wear hideous sweaters and your dad sang Elvis songs to all of your friends…you'll miss them more than you know, one day. Even when they yelled at you and asked you why you couldn't be more like your sister or what the fuck was up with the Hanson obsession…you'll miss it.
You're an adult now. You have the freedom to make your own choices and then suffer a more severe prison sentence because of those choices. Sit down. Think about that.
What the hell did I tell you about cutting your own bangs? You couldn't do it when you were four and you can't do it now at 19 (or again when you turn 28. . .which hasn't happened yet).
Here we are. Not exactly where we pictured us at thir-twenty, but we're here. We're relatively intact, and we have one hell of a story to tell. If only we could remember it after all the booze and the weed. It would've been like a Stephen King novel. Not like the current, dried-up spinster that is Stephen King (sorry, girl). I'm talking about the really awesome old school shit with the clown and Jack Nicholson and a silver bullet. I don't even remember what I was talking about, but you should really watch Cujo if you haven't seen it. Terrifying.
Deep down, I think these next ten years of my life will be my most challenging. I'm no spring chicken anymore. I'm like Britney Spe—Ariana Grande. (Except I wouldn't have just licked the donuts, I would've eaten them all. And I've never been known to spout anti-American sentiment, no matter how messed up I was. Except that one time I was really drunk and did.)
#mlb #asg2015 #justiceforcincinnati #wedontlickdonutsweeatthem #toddfrazier
Whether I'm a Britney Spears, a Jennifer Lawrence, an Angelina Jolie, or even a Diane Lane, I know I need to embrace what I have in the moment: somewhat still perky boobs, a tolerable personality, and the ability to embarrass you in any given situation. Who wouldn't want that? Hahahahahahaha….yeah, I'm going to die alone.
Happy birthday to me!
P.S. If anyone's wondering, I want Taylor Swift concert tickets.