...and that makes 33.

Today's my birthday. Whoo freaking hoo.
(Before you read any further, I must tell you that the girls and celebrated Friday night and it was fantastic. Dad took me to lunch today. Roomie hung signs and bought ice cream. The PU's (parental units) are taking me to Maggiano's Saturday. I am loved by my friends and family and I love them and enjoy them.)

I'm 33.
I still live in an apartment.
I have a roommate.
My job is nowhere near my dream job (although my company is wonderful.)
I'm still single.
I'm not seeing anyone.

I'm either a sad joke or the sterotypical beginning to a chick lit novel (minus long flowing hair, which I chopped after yet another failed relationship.)

Stop rolling your eyes. It may sound self pitying, but it hurts. I feel like I'm not accomplishing anything and that I'm simply taking up space that would be better filled by someone who would only take up half of it. I love my friends, and I love my amazingly intelligent dog, but I spend so much of my time feeling isolated and I'm not really sure how to come out of it.

Please, no one throw me the "Be patient he's out there" or "you have to be the right one to get the right one" speeches. He may not be out there. There may never be a right one. There may never be children.
That thought angers me, scares me, tires me, and makes me want to scream.

Reflection should not have been the word for the day.

I've never been sad about a birthday. I generally love my birthdays. Maybe it's because this one follows a cancelled wedding and the near disappearance of my social cirlce. Who knows. Either way, I kinda wish I'd slept through it. (Just today. Not the wonderful time Friday night.)

In other news, Gracie can sit, lay down, come, shake hands, and sit up on command. Stitches are out, incisions healed nicely, she did great at the second round of boosters, and I failed miserably already at the no Dr. Pepper thing.