Oh my aching back, arms, and legs. After working behind a desk for two years, I've forgotten how tired one can get in the restaurant industry. No matter how long you work, you're not allowed a break. There is no down time. You go nine hours without eating. Shit, why am I complaining? I make about $200 bucks a night, and I get to sleep in. Still, there are things I would rather do on my birthday than sell steak and Dom Perignon.

Yes, it's my fucking birthday. I'm 23. Who gives a shit? Tricia does. She was the first to call and say those two magic words (Technically, mom remembered first. She stayed up until midnight waiting for me to come back from Red Rock so she could wish me a happy birthday). Tonight I work. Tomorrow night I'm celebrating with the family. Saturday night I'm going out with the usual suspects and getting quite drunk. What is, after all, the advantage of 23 over 22 or 21? There isn't one. So I'll just pretend it's my 21st and let strangers buy me drinks.

Today, before work, I'm going to the mall to buy myself some birthday presents. I really think my CD collection (600+) needs some additions, as well as my DVD collection (300+). Same for my closet (thank God my Banana Republic card arrived in the mail). Maybe I'll stop in the Garfield's in the mall and talk the bartender into some free birthday drinks. I'll make up a story about how it's my last birthday because I've agreed to be cryogenically frozen for science research. I'll sit at the bar and think of great excuses to call in sick at work. I'll think of one so foolproof that I start to smile. Then I'll chicken out, iron my shirt, and go serve the upper class masses.