As you've probably noticed by now, this week's Mirror is about heart-ing Dartmouth. Obviously I back this. However, given that my column's premise is that I have quite fond feelings for Dartmouth, I felt that I should bow out from this week's theme and give the other writers a shot at the topic. Or at least that's what I told my editor.
The fact is, I'm writing this week's column the night before I turn 22 (palindrome!), so I simply can't concern myself with any subject that doesn't directly revolve around me. You see, I'm kind of an asshole about my birthday. I recognize this, really I do. I've accepted that there's one day a year (and only one) that I'm the absolute worst. Hopefully this means that I've taken the first step on the road to recovery, but that's as far as I've gotten. So know that if I seem disappointed in your performance on this glorious holiday, it's only because you failed MISERABLY at giving me the day I deserve. So, for future reference, my day should loosely (because I'm flexible) go something like this
I wake up in the morning to my iHome playing "In Da Club" by 50 Cent (cuz, shawty, it's my birthday). I check my phone and realize I've missed 50 calls, 35 BBMs and 10 texts over the course of the night. Meanwhile, the 3,155 Facebook friends all vying to be the first one to post on my wall at midnight effectively shut down the site from the hours of 12 to 2 a.m. (Only one friend neglected to post my really serious boyfriend-of-two-hours in preschool. We traded Lunchables one day, he asked me to go on a date, we ate the Lunchables together, the girl next to me had Gushers, he asked her to go on a dessert date. It got awkward.)
After writing my apology letter to Zuckerberg ("Dear Mark, I'm sorry for mattering so much. Love to Eduardo!"), I follow my nose into the kitchen where I see Meryl-as-Julia-Child (double the fame) whipping up banana-peanut-butter-chocolate-chip pancakes as the women of "The View" wait at the dining room table for me to weigh in on today's Hot Topic, "Emily Hirshey: What the World Can Do to Make Her Life Easier." (Sherri argues fiercely for the federal banning of denim-on-denim, while Joy advocates reversing the stigma of unemployed Ivy League graduates.) After Whoopi and the cast of "Sister Act" sing a rousing rendition of "Happy Birthday," I'm told it's time for me to leave (the studio/kitchen audience collectively sighs) so that I can make it to my next appointment, a live reenactment of "High School Musical" with me in Vanessa Hudgens' role.
Though three hours of singing, dancing and making out with Zac Efron have left me utterly exhausted, I'm suddenly revived when I hear the voice of Olmec over the loudspeaker on the HSM set, telling me I've been chosen as a Blue Baracuda for a live taping of "Legends of the Hidden Temple" right next door. Unwilling to disappoint Kirk Fogg, I hurry to put on my mouth guard and knee pads and proceed to pwn every Temple Guard who tries to bring me down. Of course, I barely have time to hear what I've won (a kick-ass boombox and a brand new pair of Skechers!), before I'm whisked away to my party.
Under a tent that covers the entirety of the Green, I find all my friends and family including the guest list of Diddy's White Party dressed up as Emily-over-the-years (Kanye's killin' it in the skort), with the exception of Gaga, who decided to dress in jeans and a T-shirt so as not to detract focus from me. Such a sweetheart.
Anyway, the party's kind of a blur, but highlights include: a toast by Oprah, during which she gives everyone a car the guests, of course, politefully decline and request that all gifts go to the birthday girl ("You guys!"); an inspirational montage of my life narrated by Morgan Freeman; and a heated karaoke contest, during which Biebs and I bring the crowd to tears with our rendition of "Endless Love." (It is endless, JB. It is.)
That's basically it. Nothing unreasonable really, every moment gratuitously deserved. Hear that friends? Time to start planning birthday 23.
Wait. Friends? Where'd you all go?
