I’m spending the last hour of my birthday sick in bed, wearing a green flannel bathrobe, peeling an orange, and generally feeling sorry for myself. I’m so sick I accidentally drooled on my leather boots as I got out of bed three minutes ago, which was perfectly lovely. Also, I’m ignoring my emails by constantly checking the number of unread ones.
I’m sorry to be leaving my 20th. I really enjoyed being 20, and there’s something that scares me about being 21. It’s an age I’ve wanted to be for so long that it shocks me I’m finally here. Wanting to be 21 has been part of me for–well–21 years, and now it’s here, unceremoniously, silently arriving between the minutes it takes me to peel an orange.