Loud-mouthed liberal feminist. Anarchist knitter. Tequila-drinking artsy-smartsy fat chick. Bluesy folk-rock singer-songwriter. Rebel with too many causes. Quirky eclectic pagan poet. Paradoxical intuitive smartass. Sarcastic brainiac insomniac. You know, for starters.


The end of an era.

I am no longer twenty-something. I am officially 30 years old. When people ask my age? It will start with a three, instead of a two. I was standing at a checkout, looking at the liquor/cigarettes age poster, and holy shit the date for liquor is practically ten years after I was born. Egad.

I have crow's feet and some gray hair (not that you can tell, since I have been dye-ing since I was a teenager anyway); I haven't been carded in forever. A couple dear friends took me to dinner - I didn't drink my weight in margaritas and only stop when the room started spinning. I didn't go to work, but that's because I spent my day at the DMV and tagging along with a friend to see the doctor. This kind of responsible, moderate behavior is....well, almost....mature. Surely there must be some kind of mistake.

I know it's not that big a deal in the grand scheme of world crises, but it's a big fucking deal to me. I reserve the right to be freaked out about it!!

And maybe get a new tattoo.

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