There’s nothing to say about 26.
It’s an unromantic age, full of misery and growing pains.
In another time, in another country, I’d be considered an old maid or a cast off. Thankfully, New York considers 26 ripe. Just let me know when it’s too late and I’m rotting.
I’m not going to wish myself a happy birthday. It doesn’t work like that. I’m not sure how this blogging thing works—it’s all very self-indulgent—but it’s not like that.
And many more.