As far as I can tell, the only thing about turning 31 is that I’m a prime number again. Woo.

This next year will have a lot to live up to. In the past year I:
-Roasted a pig
-Ran as a convention delegate
-joined Fictionados
-had three jobs
-and, of course, the kicker, had a hell of a big bash where I got this sweet ring as a party favor

With my new gig, I’m up at 6am and in bed by 9pm. While I don’t have the freedom to, say, work without wearing pants, I also don’t have the gut-churning terror that Anne and I will have to eat dirt for dinner. I think 31 is going to be a year of doing very adult, responsible things, like buying real estate, having kids and writing novels about teenage perverts in the near future. You know. The stuff my parents did when they were my age (though, now that I think about it, when Dad was 31, he was sending giant machines into space and going to business school, and when Mom was 31, she was probably keeping me from eating paste and wondering what in hell she was going to do about the horrific decor of our new house. But, what the hell).

If you’re so inclined to make with prezzies, please make a donation to the Westside Children’s Center instead. Anne’s on their Board of Directors, which means I’m on the Male Auxiliary. It’s an excellent organization that does daycare and family preservation for poor families in Culver City, and the more money you donate means the less Anne has to freak out about finding funding, which means she’s happier, which means the Booty Probability Factor increases exponentially, which means there’s happiness and light in the House of Rakunas. Unless you want to buy me a pony. That’s cool, too.