Each Year an Hour
Yeah so anyway, it was my birthday on Monday. I recieved many lovely text messages, emails and facebook and myspace messages. Thank you everyone! A special thank you to Randy for the cake which he baked for me.
Then he ate it.
Oh, I turned 24. By 24, Pablo Picasso had an artistic career. Mary Shelly had finished Frankenstein and had started writing Valperga.
But enough of that. I don't even care. No one in my generation is going to be remembered anyway.
Then he ate it.
Oh, I turned 24. By 24, Pablo Picasso had an artistic career. Mary Shelly had finished Frankenstein and had started writing Valperga.
But enough of that. I don't even care. No one in my generation is going to be remembered anyway.
posted by The Borg at
8:46 PM
3 Comments:
Randy is also 24...and look at him!
He looks so content with his cake.
By
Cabernet Leather, At
11:58 PM
Happy Birthday, albeit belated...
People in my generation will be remembered though, but the fact is, you're old. And everyone will have alzheimers, whereas my generation, we will find the cure and our generation will be remembered as wholistic entity, not to mention remembered on that intimate personal level that you only want people to remember once you're dead.
Didn't make much sense, did it?
But Happy Birthday...
By
BSJ-rom, At
3:52 PM
If only I read blogs on a regular basis I would have known about your birthday. Instead of a card, I would have (a) Snuck into your house and turned everything in your room upside down then snuck out again (b) Asked my Aunty Jude to call you from Sydney and sing happy birthday to you like she does for me EVERY YEAR (c)Sent you a text message and felt guilty it wasn't a card (d) Made you a card, and felt guilty for enjoying making it, therefore reducing the impact of the sacrifice of time intended to make you feel special.
By
Anonymous, At
3:33 PM
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