There have been no page views so far today. So sayeth the blogger. I shall correct this presently, I hope.

Well, I suppose Ajax will, because he has already said this evening that he hasn't seen the blog in a while and needs to check up on it. Of course, I need to do the same. That's why I'm here right now. It's okay, I know it's a high concept for me- actually writing something. Maybe bending/breaking the rules of grammar and punctuation. Aren't you proud, former English teachers?

Mrs. Tingle, you can be my English teacher and ruin my acting career (but not your own (or Katie Holmes', I suppose)) any day.

One moment, lady and gents. I need to grab a spot of pie and a spot of milk. I'ma THIRFSTY.

You should really watch The Venture Bros. It's pretty funny, and it has talk of juice boxes and old-timey Prussian bodybuilders that you haven't heard of. It's his birthday today. Maybe you should say a word or two.

Now that those two spots have been taken care of and moved such that they aren't blocking my access to the keyboard (so inconsiderate!), we're going to talk about birthdays.

Good Lord this apple pie is delicious, despite my botching the recipe. You'd think I'd know better, having done this recipe before and all. You'd think wrong, though. Dead wrong. Because the pie isn't alive. Well, at least I hope it isn't. But, yes, birthdays.

I had some pretty kickass birthdays growing up. My mom did strong work. There was the Cookie Monster Conducting a Train Chocolate Cake (which I remember as having a moving train, but I was 3 years old and therefore probably high on whatever was in arms reach), the amazing pirate theme (of which there is a picture, but I'm feeling lazy and don't want to put it up on this post. Maybe another), and several other great birthday parties when I was young.

Fine, I'll post it. Along with the MINEFIELD OF SWEETGUMS. (Funny story about those- they will paralyze your foot and nobody will believe you.)

I guess when I was around 9 or 10, I stopped having birthday parties. I figure that's normal, right? Of course. Part of it was that I didn't particularly have a whole lot of close friends back then. Maybe I was well-liked (thanks, Willy!) (maybe I should stop making references I won't get in the morning. Future Rob, that's referring to Willy Loman from Death of a Salesman. Hopefully you know this in the morning. If not, trivia is doing more damage than we had anticipated. Also, you just dropped a pen. Fix that. Thanks, past Rob.), but I had a whole lot of paranoia in middle school (again, high on whatever I could get my hands on. Namely, LIFE), so I didn't trust the kids who were talking to me, probably because, in hindsight, they actually were being a bit weird and trying to get me to twerk out. Whatever twerking is. I don't know. Middle school sucks for everybody. It is the worst thing ever.

They're all dead on the inside. Nobody smiles like that in middle school. Look at the desperation in their eyes.

High school was better though. I know, this doesn't seem to relate a lot to birthdays. We're getting there. See, in high school, I was big on theater for a few years. The other year, I was big on, well, EVERYTHING ELSE. Youth group, scouts, quiz bowl, church choir, absurd courseloads, Model UN, hitting on Katie Couric, and, well, theater productions all seemed to get in the way of my birthday. I blame Franklin Pierce.

Shifty bastard. Look at those eyes. The thing about Franklin Pierce- he's got lifeless eyes. Black eyes. like a doll's eyes. When he comes at you, doesn't seem to be living until he bites you, and those black eyes roll over white, and then- ah, then you hear that terrible high-pitched screaming. The White House turns red, and despite all the poundin' and the hollerin', all the presidents come in and they rip you to pieces.

The shining example that comes to mind was my... probably junior year, I think. Could have been sophomore. Let's find out. Yep. Junior year. Anyway, junior year, I was in Macbeth, and blah blah blah, my parents had to basically hold me down and force me to open my freaking birthday presents. I had gotten a guitar (Rachel, for those counting), and it has served me well ever since.

That said, my birthday? Late March. When did I open this thing? Mid- to late April.

But, hey, 21, 22, and 25 have all been pretty great. 21 was the great failed surprise party by Amanda (don't try to stall me when I'm hungry, and coordinate better I guess? I don't know. It was still a fun time, because there was beer at dinner. THERE WAS NEVER BEER AT DINNER BEFORE THEN. WHAT MADNESS WAS THIS?). 22 was the Q-Night where everyone showed up, which was super touching. You don't really know what Q-Night was. You missed out, man. 23 was Amsterdam (lots of munchies, not as much fun as I'd have liked), 24 was in a test week or something, but 25? Lots of people came out, we went out to a decent bar, and everything was beautiful and nothing hurt.

Listen: Billy Pilgrim has come unstuck in time.

So, thanks, everybody. There were some pretty weird and awkward moments along the way, but I'm glad I'm not in middle school, and I'm glad y'all came by. Here's a happy K-pop song.

My God, he's learned how to insert videos. We're doomed.