Eight more days until I’m twenty-seven-years-old and only seven until the birthday week stuff. I don’t know why I called it birthday week. It sort of just stuck after the first year we celebrated, back when it was just Miranda and me, then Binx joined up. Miranda’s birthday is on the fifteen, Binx’s is on the nineteenth and I’m on the twentieth. I still don’t feel right inside, though. About next week. Something’s eating away at me and I’m not looking forward to it. I know I can back down and not join them at her place, and I know that the night would go on without a hitch if I did, but I still feel driven to be there from some misguided responsibility.
I wish I could explain the gravity of my emotions, but talking about my problems was never my strong suit. Most of the times, I just cram them in the back of my mind and close the door on them until they burst out and spill all over the floor, leaving me to pick up the mess. Some times I wish I could rewind the clocks and start this over again. The Binx Obsession of building the proverbial time machine.
That isn’t who I am, however. Wasn’t I always the one who did things and damn the consequences? When did that part of me die? Where did I leave it? Or when did the illusion that I was ever that person fade?
Billy Corgan’s singing in my ear – sh sh sh sh shame – and I have a clean bill of health – I went back for my blood work today – still, I’m looking forward a week and I’m filled with fear. Worry. The weight of the world crushing me.