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2004-10-31 | 11:16 a.m.

My mental age is eleven.

It was too much to hope for, that I would spend my 40th surrounded by friends. I know that. I knew that when I dreamed it up. But now Duff's parents are here and they aren't planning to leave until the day after my birthday. The mother told me yesterday that they were thinking about taking me out to dinner for my birthday. I know she was being nice and I am an ungrateful shit. But I don't want to spend my birthday with my in-laws. I don't want to spend my birthday with my in-laws, or my bill collectors, or my probation officer, George W. Bush or his minions, Howard Stern, Martha Stewart, my uncle Jack, Mormons, Jehovah's Witnesses, ascetic monks, toddlers, or perfume ladies. I'm sorry.

I think I'll just find a glass coffin and crawl into it. I feel a long snooze coming on.

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