Sorority girls looooove their birthdays. Really. Love them. For the entire month leading up to their birthday, you will get at least weekly reminders of exactly how long it is until the big day. (8 days for me in case anyone’s asking. Get excited. Maybe.) This, along with giant bows and a love for glitter, is something that sorority girls and small children have in common. And what’s not to love? It’s an entire day dedicated to you and how awesome you are…everyone has to be nice to you and make you feel special, and it’s a pretty bitchin’ way to test your fratdaddy’s love for you through both his purchase of material gifts and the thoughtfulness he puts into planning out the most perfect day ever. It’s exciting and everything is grand…it’s your BIRTHDAY and you have every reason in the world to be happy….before you turn 21.
Life after your 21st birthday on the other hand, is slightly less magical. Out of habit, you still get excited for your special day, because during the previous 21 years, you got obnoxiously excited for your special day. But then you’ll have a moment…a breakdown, a horrific realization, that EVERY birthday from this point forward…every DAY from this point forward is actually just one day closer to doomsday; your 30th birthday. It’s at this moment that you become painfully aware that your looks, metabolism, and the perkiness of your boobs are waning by the moment. Sure you look good now, but let’s face the facts…your biological clock is ticking, and you’re not getting any younger. You’re 23 almost. TWENTY-THREE. And soon you’ll be 25. And then 28. And then 30. And then your life might as well just be over. You are old.
Then you start to reflect…When your parents were your age they were MARRIED. They owned a house, your father managed a small business, your mother…I don’t know, I think did nothing but be pretty, but she was MARRIED and that’s a hell of a lot more than you can say. Well, I mean, you’re pretty. But NOT FOR LONG. You now have seven years to stop being a drunken fool for long enough to trick some asshole into dating you…and I do mean some asshole (and I do also mean trick), because you wanted one more boyfriend in between now and your husband…break up with him, get over him, get over assholes in general, be single and love it again, stop being a commitmentphobe AGAIN, find a new guy, trick him into dating you, get him to PROPOSE, plan out a wedding, get married, have a son, and be pregnant with your beautiful daughter by the time you’re 30. And the way I’m calculating it…there really just isn’t enough time for all that. You need to meet your husband like…6 months ago in order to ensure you have a two and a half year relationship, year and a half engagement, and a year of happy marriage before you get pregnant with your first child at 28…and 28 was already pushing it back. NOT TO FUCKING MENTION…you didn’t get over your asshole phase, so what does that mean…you marry the asshole? Get divorced because he’s a cheating scumbag and then die alone? How did this happen? How did I get SO OLD. Fuck my birthday. At least I’ll get presents and if I’m too old for those…I’ll just get drunk.