Last week was my eighteenth birthday. That's supposed to be an important one, right? I mean, now I can legally buy porn and cigarettes. Well, not cigarettes, at least not in Alabama, but certainly porn. Not that it was any harder to get yesterday, but I digress.

It's an important day, right? I'm legal, after all, but I thought the fact that I can pack my shit and leave at any given time would be a little more liberating. Maybe I'm crazy. Was I expecting the Birthday Fairy to come over with a gift basket to official usher me into adulthood with a small ceremony? Maybe, but instead I'm lying in bed trying to sleep off the mononucleosis. Is there poetic justice in that?

Eighteen was supposed to be a turning point. It still could be. I remember last summer, when I was visiting home. I had at least one meal with The Fake Grandma. I had just turned seventeen, which she told me was a good age. Looking back, it really was a good age. I came to terms with my sexuality, adopted a more positive outlook on life, fell back-asswards into a kickass boyfriend, had the best educational experience of my high school career, found a college, took up drinking as a hobby, saw the culmination of that same high school career, and still found time to watch TV. That's going to be hard to beat.

College has an air about it. We all have this concept of what it's supposed to be like, but none of us can really know until we get there. Back when I was still semi-seriously engaged Daphne G, I thought going away to college right after my birthday would be good because I'd get adjusted to the town and have a leg up on all the other freshmen in the fall. I still think that, but the whole get-married-and-move thing kind of fell through when Daph and I both sobered up long enough to come to our senses.

One of my big hopes for college is that I'll find some friends who aren't flaky. No one starts out flaky, of course (or do they?), but I'm finding more and more that people who used to be reliable and dependable are punking out of things on a regular basis. Maybe they're all as weirded out as me.

I don't pretend to have any idea what's going to happen tomorrow, much less at any specific point during the next twelve months. Hell, if you had told me about all the shit that was going to happen to me at this time a year ago, I would have told you you were batshit crazy. No one knows what the future holds, really. We all sit around and take stabs at 'long-range planning,' but really it's all for naught because (here comes the clich�) life is what happens when you're busy making plans.

I can't wait for college, but at the same time I'm intensely terrified of it. All kinds of horrible things could happen to me. I might actually have to work for a few grades now. That's scary stuff, people, considering I squeaked out a 3.7 GPA by doing the absolute minimum for two and a half years.

***

It's officially summer. Except for the, um, official part, but it's damn close enough. It's officially summer at my house, though, and it's about fucking time. I've been waiting for it to be summer for, like, a month now and it's finally here.

I can tell summer is here because I get to sleep past seven each morning. I can get up and watch pure, unadulterated crap on television or I can lie in bed and dream about being motivated enough to do something, like go to the movies or mail my graduation thank-you cards. I can tell it's summer because you can't swing a cat around by the tail without hitting a reality show, bad (Fame) or good (The Amazing Race 4). I can also tell it's summer because the pile of books next to my bed is actually fluctuating in size (translation: I'm reading). I can tell it's summer because it's just uncomfortable enough outside for me to want to stay inside forever. I can tell it's summer because I'm opening at work, which rules because it keeps my evenings free. I know summer is here because I lack the energy and desire to do much of anything at all (post entries, do laundry, clean in general).

Yay, summer!

***

Okay, I've been trying all week to churn out something that isn't completely vomit-inducing so that my last two loyal followers won't be completely turned off by my lazy, incompetent prose. Like anyone wants to read about what I'm watching on television because I'm too slothful to go outside and walk the damn dog. I feel like a third arm in the body of internet journalling, not to mention the fact that I seem to be having trouble conjugating the world 'journalling.' Did I do it right? Who the hell knows? Will I have something important to say, and if so, will I have something important to say soon? I'm out here flailing, questioning my purpose as far as this website is concerned, questioning the money I just put into my domain renewal. Help.