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Happy birthday to me?

UPDATE: So... yeah. My phone lied to me and died when it said I had 54% battery left, so it died. Luckily, the emergency guy showed up and I had just enough juice to flash my hazards for a second so he could find me. He jumped my car, I thanked him profusely, and drove off to get a cake. I got the biggest fucking Snicker's bar cake I could find and bought it while my car was left unattended and running in the parking lot. At this point, it had been running for 20 minutes. I got home and let it idle for a little while longer just to be sure, and then I turned off the engine. BIG MISTAKE!!! My car is now dead in the parking lot. But it's my HOME parking lot, so at least I'm home. I'm gonna have to call management or harass some neighbors tomorrow to see if anyone can jump it (again) so I can leave it on longer. Happy fucking birthday to me.

You know, it just wouldn't be my birthday without something going disastrously wrong or me crying in a heap of tears (thank goodness this isn't a crying birthday).

I just left two hours of bliss at the spa, where I got an amazing massage and facial and got my brows waxed for the first time in years. Let me tell you, if I had to give up sex or chocolate for the rest of my life in exchange for free massages whenever I wanted, I'd do it in a heartbeat. Who knew my glutes were so tight?


So how did I ruin such a relaxing evening where I spoiled myself after working my ass off for a month straight? By leaving the lights on in my car like a big dumb dumb. So now I'm sitting in a freezing cold car waiting for a jump, and all I wanted to do was go home and gorge on dinner and watch something dumb on TV while my dog slept on my feet.

Oy, birthdays. I am bad at them.

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