Appropriately enough, I have so far celebrated the twentieth anniversary of my birth by trying to track down an official record of that very event. It turns out don’t need a passport to get back into the States from Canada yet, but you do need a birth certificate.
“I think you had it last, Honey. Do you want me to try to break into that filing cabinet in your room? I’ll bet it’s in there.”
So I got a nice, brisk start to the day springing from my bed, alarmed, to call her back and let her know that NO, it is most definitely not in the filing cabinet, there is nothing in that damn filing cabinet, and that there is no need to fucking touch the filing cabinet, OK?
I left that cabinet locked for a reason, you see. It’s sort of a memory box of my high school years. Resting in its hanging folders are the remains of the first baggy of super-weak dope I ever smoked, (I can’t help it; I’m sentimental), and a Prom picture of me and Sara and Lauren and that weird guy Sara brought along.
The photo wouldn’t be such a big deal had I ever mentioned to my mom that I went to Prom in the first place. But…I was going through a secretive phase then, and I’d really prefer that she not get her feelings hurt by finding out that her son never let her see him all dressed up for the only formal dance he would ever attend. Yes, OK, I was kind of an ungrateful teenager. This is not news.
But as of today I’m no longer a teenager, and in the spirit of maturity that comes with age, I’m going to show Erin what a grateful 20-year-old I can be. I opened my mailbox this morning and found 19(!) Suicide Bunny postcards. This one is far and away my favorite:
(Click to enlarge.)
Erin, your position on my personal heroes list is officially tenured. My mailbox has never been that full. It is so unbelievably great on your birthday to open a mailbox that is filled with things other than Comcast ads and cell phone bills, you have no idea. You made me feel special. Real special. Please send me your mailbox address at camp so I can send you a gushing and appreciative Thank You note.
Don’t worry, you guys: I’m getting the birth certificate FedExed from the Georgia Records Bureau. It should be here by Thursday.