Twenty-one.

As I sit here, enjoying my final drinks before the clock strikes midnight and I turn 21, many thoughts lay heavy upon my mind. Is this the end of an era? The final step on this long and self-destructive journey? Oh the misguided antics of youth and passing out in public places.

It’s times like these that beg certain questions, formerly restricted to the midst of troubled sleep. Who am I? Why are my feet bleeding? Why are plastic handles of vodka $20 in Manhattan? For the love of Christ has Tresemme discontinued its heat protective spray, or can I just not find it?

I feel like everything is happening too fast, especially with the move to NYC and sudden disconnect from Drexel. However, I’d like to throw myself at the mercy of optimism, and say that everything is really working out for the best. Living in Hell’s Kitchen for six months should be interesting, especially now that I don’t have to lie about my identity.

I will miss my former former identity Kimberley, even though she was less attractive than I and 5’3”. Not to mention she made me twenty-seven when I was eighteen. She was a shitty ID, but good enough for the dregs of society in West Philadelphia. And by dregs of society I mean UPenn bars.

My former identity was very good to me, and this time we shared the same first name and picture. I decided upon the name because I figured no matter where we were, my friends would call me by my first name, and if I were with certain people they would make anti-semitic references. Therefore I chose a comically Jewish sounding last name.

When I was in high school, I thought life slowly spiraled downward after the twenty-first birthday. What was there to look forward to, other than being able to rent a car? I’m admittedly a horrible driver, and do it as little as humanly possible. However, high school Sarah also thought she was cool for pre-gaming the homecoming dance, skipping track practice, and mis-matching velour sweatsuits. I could never aspire to be that baller again.

In the end, I realize the vodka tonic I’m drinking now tasted just as shitty now as it did when I was sixteen, or will taste when I’m chugging them in some hellhole of a retirement home. The only thing that will change is I will hopefully one day be able to afford glass bottles, as opposed to the plastic ones of shame I’m so used to. To that I will raise a glass, and say happy fucking birthday to me.