It's Burning On The Road

But don't forget the songs that made you cry
And the songs that saved your life.
Yes, you're older now, and you're a clever swine,
But they were the only ones that ever stood by you.
- The Smiths

Birthday week's spiralling down to its end, and it's been – as I've mentioned to anxious friends – one of the best that I've seen in recent years. Not because the 5th of November was welcomed with a huge party, limitless alcohol, a giant cake with the surprise of a male stripper crouched inside, oh, nothing like that. And although I wouldn't object to such a celebration – that male stripper would've made for a lot of laughs – my 24th birthday was fun enough, with friends treating me out to seafood and beer, not to mention a tiny cake from AMCI friends, plus a poetry reading and more beer capping off the day.

And then, of course, there was half a day and steak with Jose, which is always a foolproof formula for a wonderful time.

Slouching outside Purple Haze while waiting for Mahal's gig, ending the Birthday Week with Obbie and Abbey. Photo courtesy of Obbie.

The only fact that could've caused a dent in the whole thing was the Delayed Pay Check, a development which is never acceptable nor welcome in any given universe or solar system. I'll bet even one-eyed, slime-cloaked extraterrestrials would throw a fit if they didn't get their checks on the appointed date – because, really, no matter how indifferent you claim to be where fiscal shit is concerned, you have to concede that having an empty wallet is definitely no fun.

Still, it's all been great. Light years better than last year's birthday, to be frank. Even Carlo remembers what a wet blanket I was, what with that panic attack giving me a good wallop in the morning and ruining my mood for the rest of the day. I may have been asking for it, though – days before my birthday, I would stay up at night and worry about what I was doing with myself, where I was headed for, if I was at all headed for anything. That sad, needless slurry of anxiety that twenty-something folks like to dunk themselves into.

While I'm not saying that I now avoid those questions altogether, the last year has been all about going over those same concerns without obsessing over them, or finding the tragedy where there was none, or conjuring new monsters because it was a habit you couldn't resist catering to. What I'm saying is that I am now a better person because I've been paying a lot of attention to what Oprah and Dr. Phil have to say, and I bought myself a copy of The Secret and found a real wellspring of hope in it, and I've recently decided to give up beer in favor of knitting reindeer-themed sweaters for all of my friends.

I'M KIDDING.

I actually haven't made a lot of progress. I still have a filthy imagination, I still swear a lot, my moral self is in shreds (if it was there to begin with), and I lie to Dad about going to Mass. But I'm quite proud of how far I've gone in the last 12 months; at the very, very least, I can wriggle my ears now. Unassisted. I am that cool.

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Peachy: I got a question for you.
Ate Monique: What.
Peachy: Suppose that you had a pet lobster –
Ate Monique: I would never keep a lobster as a pet!
Peachy: Okay, all right, but what if all the lobsters in the world had been wiped out, and you were asked to take care of this one remaining lobster while the rest of the scientific community looked for a mate for it? So supposing you had this lobster, right –
Ate Monique: Okay.
Peachy: What name will you give it?
Ate Monique: Um, I don't know. Why?
Peachy: I'd probably name it Freddie.
Ate Monique: Freddie? Well, actually, yeah, that would be a good name for a lobster.
Peachy: Isn't it?? Isn't it perfect? Doesn't a lobster look so much like a Freddie? Can you imagine it inside its aquariu--
Ate Monique: Wait a minute, why am I even talking to you about this??
Peachy: I have no idea.
.