"Mother, may I go and maffick."

My birthday party on Friday night was, hands down, the best I have ever had. Hands down. For the 30 or so friends who came out to play with me, you are part of a personal superlative that won't soon be outdone. My second birthday party on Saturday night was also great. Not quite so glittery or spectacular, but still very, very great and involving a heap of dancing. My birthday celebration with my family today came apart in tatters and might be the very worst birthday experience on record for me. So, I defer to averaging techniques that will enable me to cancel at least part of that grossness out.

Once I scan the photos and take some time to piece it back together, I think my Friday night tales will be a thrill in any language. But I hate how I keep having to promise what is to come. I have things I haven't said and shown about far too many items at this point. I can feel it piling up. But if you count pre-birthday drinks on Thursday, I've been sort of drunk for nearly three straight days. And it's time to give my poor blood and the organs that clean it a rest. Is there a gene for a predisposition towards murdering oneself? If so, map me, genome scientists. I'm your girl.