What a pretty little birthday girl I was.

Poor Danny Wilson’s face.

I hate birthdays. That’s why my friends took care of it for me. Birthdays involving a drink we describe as rocket fuel, secret gardens, a petting zoo and crashing black tie events are ok by me. 23 is just a number anyway.

Still, the aftermath has left me with stomach pains, dehydration and a vow of sobriety.

Here’s to adulthood or something.