March 14, 2002 | 10:01 PM

March 15th. The Ides of March. My birthday.

25.

twenty-five.

I am only two years younger than Kurt Cobain was when he shot himself. I was 17 when he died. I was home sick from school and I sat in the shower and cried and cried and cried and then I stayed home for three more days even though I wasn�t really sick anymore. I just couldn�t bear to leave the house

My heart is broke

I have some glue

Help me inhale

Mend it with you

25 fucking years old and how much smarter am I than I was that day when I sat in a dark bathroom, rocking back in forth in the tub with the water beating down on my head.

I travel through a tube and end up in your infection

Much smarter actually. Much much smarter.

I am 25 and the number of years I�ve lived while my father is dead is greater than the number of years we were both alive at the same time.

Sometimes I look back and I can�t believe all the things I�ve seen and all the things I�ve done and everything that�s happened. And. I am only 25 years old. There is so much more ahead.

And now. This is actaully the most sane and most together I have felt ever. Ever in my whole life. I fought so hard to get here. And I am glad.

Happy birthday to me.

Jesus.

25.

No more excuses.

I will do a SAGA update most likely tomorrow. Unless someone whisks me away for some surprise fabulous birthday vacation. Stranger things have happened to me. Who knows.