Today I may or may not have seen Mclovin, enjoying a pink cosmo at Heartland Brewery in Union Square. He looked a little older than I think the real Christopher Mintz-Platypus (whatever) is.
Then I bought myself a birthday present, because I was highly anxious after almost crying in a restaurant due to either empathy or anger or utter frustration at life. The glass of wine encouraged me, and the birthday discount from Anthropologie didn't hurt. I would like to work there. Anyway, I have a new mug that looks like a peasant painted it and a headband that cost more than a steak dinner. But you know what? I'm only 25 on the 25th once, and I'm not going to be in Vegas as I always dreamed I would be at midnight in 26 hours. So I don't care. At all. Ugh. I should move to Hawaii. I'm already an organ donor and now I'll be 25 too. Perfect.