Being 23

It's the four-day eve to my 23rd birthday.
Am I really expected to know what I want to do with my life thus far?
Everything I thought I knew up to this point in my life seems to be making a complete 180, as I push my cat off my bed and say "no, i don't want to be with you".
Is there a reason I don't like my birthday? Lest to say I hate the excessive amounts of attention I am given on it, but I adore full fledged attention on any other day of the year. What's the psychology behind that? You want what you can't have. Pure Aries obstinate attitude. Take your pick. Either way it's another year of my life I am beginning in complete darkness.

One of my earliest memories of childhood is having sleepovers at my grandparents house on Friday evenings. I’d snuggle up in my grandma’s bed, she’d put on a classic Elvis film (usually Frankie and Johnny), we would drink red pop floats and eat overly buttered popcorn. No matter what movie we watched I’d always preempt the film by declaring that I would get to play [insert name of lead heroine in film here]. Now this has nothing to do with the particular story I’m about to tell, but it does give a good insight towards my personality- and heck who are we kidding, it makes me a more likeable character in the whole grand scheme of what I can honestly call the most confusing spectacle of my life to date.

Now I’ve had my fair share of mishaps in my life, but previous to this I can account the most viscous of the bunch to senior year high school Prom when my date took of his shirt and decided to give the entire teaching staff quite the show. Thankfully these were still the prepubescent days so there wasn’t really much of a show for sale that evening.

They say you're supposed to write what you know, so here goes my own (hopefully) heroine tale- a 23 year old midwestern old soul living in New York city attempting to figure out her life before the city claims what is left of it. Let's pray I don't become the damsel in distress.