Neck Face
Woke up this morning bunched up in a painful little ball with a stiff neck that just won’t quit. I guess once you reach 31, a little plastic timer pops up somewhere like in a Perdue Oven Stuffer Roaster to let you and the entire freakin’ world know that you are officially DONE. Whatevs - I’m just grumpy-grumpstein because my birthday involved no semblance of dinner or cake or candles or wishes this year, but in the garish light of day that seems more than a little spoiled. I guess in these enlightened times, if a gal wants cake, then she best be gettin’ off her 31-year-old ass to find one herself.