Now that I’m almost 40 years old, I can look back 30 years on my life and say that I meant it when I picked that booger. A long tv career, various angry poems, lots of rock n roll concerts, an ocean of coffee, several stays at mental hospitals, part-time social work jobs where residents chased me/threw things at me, a million piles of nachos, a truckload of hair dye, my husband’s two cancer journeys, classes at three different colleges, throwing up in two bars, all those houseplants I killed, three cross-country Amtrak trips, starting my own business from scratch with no experience, a summer of electroshock therapy, stage diving at my high school talent show, that one time I hiked in the dark up north, those 10 years I ate vegan, crossing the border drunk, dumpster diving in the middle of the night, painstakingly producing my own ‘zine before the internet age, picking up a hitchhiker at a gas station, aiding and abetting the theft of a hotel room bible and glass ash tray, swearing at my typing teacher, quitting Dunkin Donuts after three days, protesting the Iraq War, a three year mohawk, throwing the neighbor’s wreath on the roof, singing a song I wrote to a radio DJ in the 80s, owning my own magic kit, punching a male friend in the face at age 7 and yes–he cried, refusing to wear a shirt in the backyard pool, falling asleep at work (several times, actually), counter-demonstrating at abortion clinics in the 90s, backing up on the freeway to make an exit (I’m that asshole), an accomplice to lies told to patrons at the New York Museum of Modern Art, wearing a cheap wig for fun, making poop jokes on public transit, growing up in the inner city and later, the suburbs (newsflash: they both suck and now, I live in the country), forgetting where I live and asking family to google me home, ripping my pants at the factory, attempting a garden, sneaking out of the house at night for candy, allowing my friend to handcuff herself to my car, owning over 900 cassette tapes, piercing my own ears with a stick pin and ice cubes, drinking three pots of coffee in one day, hiding vitamins in our family Volkwagen’s hubcaps–if you put all this nonsense in a blender with a sprinkle of farts, you basically are left with 39 year old me. It’s been wild, it’s been rich, and to think I might have another 40+ years left to make fun of people, eat burritos, grow sprouts, pretend to listen to authority, ignore famous people, not pick up phone calls, watch the Kids in the Hall, and try every coffee known to man, well, that’s awesome! 211 days until my 40th birthday and I expect some pretty neat presents. Don’t pick me a booger and call it cocaine. I expect balloons, cake, catered Mexican food, 90s rock, a date with Lewis Black, a date with Perry Farrell, and enough coffee to satisfy China. Are you hearing me? And don’t you dare chase Pokemon on my birthday. I will cut you.