If I was famous I’d be dead by now.

It was my birthday this week! May 11th, 1984 until May 11th, 2011 (oh shit just realized this was my only year of 11-11…somehow this feels significant?) were quite the barnburner. But I feel like my life is just beginning! I know who I am and what I want and how to get it (I am a writer/I want to write/I will write). And considering a life is only as rich as the people in it, I’m a fucking billionaire!

Birthday highlights include: a solo May 10th in Malibu frolicking in the waves, stomping on seaweed poppers, spotting a seal AND a dolphin!, falling asleep in the sun, and reading A Practical Guide to Wicca hoping someone would notice how weird/intriguing I am (fail); that night many friends from my many L.A. lives rallied at Canter’s, the most Jewish and retro deli ever, where I ordered Thanksgiving dinner, took too many whiskey shots, and danced for/sang with the ragtag AWESOME cover band that plays the deli on Tuesday nights; a family-filled May 11th, Grandma ordered me Chinese food for a bday dinner (I told her I don’t like Chinese, I’d rather have Thai–she said “too bad”), my aunt and uncle gave me a new litter box (score!), and Beth, Jen Birn and I hit up the Roosevelt for Beacher’s Madhouse (Leo DiCaprio was there…so nice of him to join in my festivities!).

Here’s my official 27th birthday portrait, with a panda from Beacher’s:

I might grow older, but I refuse to grow up!

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