(title comes from my brother's sixth or seventh birthday, which takes place three days after my own. I had just figured out that birthdays = personal Christmas, and did not like that my Christmas was over and now it was James' turn. This is what I sang to him as he blew out the candles on his cake)
Since McKay won't get home for another couple hours, my birthday is pretty much on hold right now. My wrapped presents are on the table, covered by a tablecloth so I won't go insane staring at them. My Smurf cake has its hat completely eaten off, and is awaiting Ding Dongs to make it into a brunette Smurfette with curly hair (seriously. That's going to be my cake. Love it). My stomach is rumbling, awaiting the cheap, greasy Chinese food I picked out for my birthday dinner (no way was I cooking on my birthday or waiting for McKay to cook for me when we have so little time together as it is).
And I'm going crazy. It feels a bit like an extended Christmas Eve, and the anticipation is reaching blow-up levels. Um, yeah. I like birthdays. Especially my own.
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