It’s the morning of my 35th Birthday, which means two things. First, that it’s time to post the traditional morning-of-my-birthday-self-portrait-that-will-cause-my-parents-to-complain-about-the-things-I-put-up-on-the-internet.
Not quite the grim visage of death I used for my thirty-third birthday, but I do plan on staying like this for most of the damn day. It’s Sunday, after all, and Sundays were meant for staying in bed with an arm thrown over your face, pretending the outside world doesn’t exist.
Secondly, it means I should reread Haruki Murakami’s Birthday Stories anthology, ’cause that’s what I do on my birthday.
Yes, I know, least exciting blog post ever, but hey – it’s tradition. And a Sunday.