I’m turning 29 next week. I might as well be thirty, since it’s the same thing. After you are twenty-five, you are basically thirty.
I find new gray hairs while examining a pimple. This doesn’t seem quite fair, but it is ironic in an Alanis Morissette kind of way.
I’m done with friendship and relationship drama. If you’re interested in getting mad or arguing over pettiness, I’m not interested in being around you.