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This weekend—on Sunday to be exact—I will turn 33.

The age Jesus Christ was said to have died.

I trust I’ll be alive to see my 33rd birthday. Hey that’s a morbid thought. I am not sentimental. All I want for my birthday is a pedicure. Or maybe a nice long massage and sleep afterwards.

Well, let’s see… this should be a good time to do some accounting. In my thirty-three years on this planet, I have:

Lived in 3 cities, 2 towns, 7 apartments, a dorm, 2 houses, and for six months, in a hotel.

I have seen the planets aligned in a row.

When I went on a long vacation one summer, I inadvertently killed my pet turtle Gigabyte, because of neglect.

Two of my dearest friends died of the same illness. I was only able to attend one funeral.

For almost 2 years, I was a functioning drunk, but I quit smoking after more than 10 years.

In one year, I quit my job, went full freelance for months, then packed up my life in one city and moved to another. I traveled by bus at 2AM on a Friday and landed a job after the weekend.

Sometime this year, I started wearing skirts.

One time, after watching a movie, I emerged outside into a raging typhoon and walked thigh-high waters. Adroitly avoiding flying tin sheets, broken plastic signs, and floating vehicles, I was able to check into a small hotel and pass the night away from danger.

One summer, I stayed up most of the night and well into the early morning hours kissing a guy with sea-green eyes.

In Manila, while on board a speeding in a taxi on the way to a drinking party I was banged up in the backseat when the taxi swerved on two wheels to avoid an oncoming motorcycle. The biker dude was drunk/stoned, the taxi driver was kind, my stockings were ruined. I had bruises for days, but I was able to make it to the party.

I have held a writhing, live python in my arms for a good 10 minutes.

When we were kids, my older sister and I would climb up the roof of our one-storey house and jump feet-first, laughing, onto the grass in our front yard.

After giving birth to my son, I passed the time reading Hannibal while waiting in the recovery room.

And on Sunday I will be 33. Jesus.


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