The Wonder Years

Hmm...I see that no one reads this. That's a pity. Even I've lost interest. I've been too busy utilizing the fruits of my growing a year older (presents, duh). I have quite a nice haul, indeed. Designer tid-bits and DVDs galore. Scrubs is my new fave. Alas, my dinner with my mother and sister didn't go as planned this past Friday night. My sister and her friend had an elaborate plan including bar hopping and culminating with Sonar. Unfortunately, yours truly forgot her ID yet again. I think I have a problem. Dinner was fun of course, because I love my mommy and sister, but it shortly went downhill. I went to my sister's apartment for a night of drinking orange juice in completely legal establishments and promptly passed out. While I was in another world, my sister and her friends went clubbing. Hm. Now, clubbing isn't my thing, exactly. I'm not one to touch the ground and stick my butt in the air as an attempt at dancing (Christ no, I'm not nearly good enough to do that). I just think that maybe creepy older men would've been a better alternative than being passed out on my sister and her boyfriend's bed (SINNERS). Well, the big day isn't until tomorrow. There's lots of time to celebrate. As I see it, this birthday is an end to my childhood years. Eighteen is, in fact, legal, but nineteen seems oh so much older. Just ask Humbert Humbert! Nineteen year olds are no longer jail bait - they are real live adults. Poor Humbert. I am too old. As I say au revoir to my golden years, I welcome adulthood with open arms. Maybe a Chanel purse isn't too far off in the future. Oh yeah, and a husband. Woot! Peace and harmony, loves.

I Am So Hip It Hurts.

I have just finished perusing my favorite purse lover website, The Purse Forum. It is muy fabuloso. I can drool over other people's Chanel bags that I can never afford even in my wildest dreams. Well, maybe in my wildest dreams. Anything can happen when you're tripped up on Tylenol PM. Mmmmm. Anyway, the beginning of the year hasn't been too eventful for me. For Britney Spears, unfortunately, she's just going downhill. I'll miss her. Don't pass out in clubs for God's sake, Britney! It's just not proper. But I still love her. My obsession with celebrities has gotten my mother angry. While doing my usual reading of Pinkisthenewblog.com, I came across "Cobrasnake," which I had already seen the name of on pictures of Mickey Avalon, my favorite glam rapper. Well, maybe the only glam rapper. He is way fabulous. Anyway, it turns out Cobrasnake is like this pseudonym for this photographer who some how manages to get really detrimental pictures of celebrities and their bitches. I was looking through his pictures, and ended up looking him up on Wikipedia. It said something about his intern, Cory Kennedy, who is a very young fashionista he happens to be dating. I googled her of course, and came across her blog. After cyberstalking her for a while, I have accurately absorbed her sense of fashion. What I didn't know about California was that the real party hoppers, the real fashionistas, the real "it girls," were simple unknown (to most) teenage girls. And they don't wear the Primp sweatsuits purchased at Kitson like Paris Hilton. Oh, no. They are scenesters. REAL scenesters. I was reading Cory Kennedy's blog and noticed her namedropping a dozen times at least. Oh yeah, I invited L.L. to the club and then we hung out (Lindsay Lohan). M. Barton was there. P. Hilton and Nicky blah blah blah. So there's this whole portion of L.A. that isn't clad in Lisa Kline, but rather in a mix of thrift store and couture. It's pretty interesting, when you think about it. These are the real people of the L.A. party scene. Professional partiers. Even Mischa Barton's barely legal little sister! Sheesh. All these realizations have gotten me knackered.