It's always the same story. For as long as I can remember, my birthday week has always stood out. No, not in good, memorable way. And NO not because I'm in any way excited or looking forward to it (far from it actually), but because I can't think straight with all the bloody pressure. In fact, right now, my head is ten minutes away from exploding. Having gone to six different stores and found nothing ('new clothes' is a must, they insist) really hasn't done me any good. Every year, I'm reminded of how much I detest shopping. I either find something, or I don't. Or I want the entire store. So see, I'm the last person who enjoys shopping. Shopaholic? Hah. Chances of OD'ing on heroin are higher, trust me. Anyway, then there are excited and jumpy people all around me who go into party-planning mode and refuse to slow down to ask me whether I might have an opinion. It doesn't sound too bad here, I know. But trust me, you aren't the one sitting here with a bitchofamigraine (and near death approaching, steadily). Since you'll listen, here is exactly  what I want to do this birthday: crawl under my purple blanket and SLEEP. And okay, go ahead and call me boring if you want to. See if I care.