Rapidly comes the end of asking others to run my drinks for me. Come this Saturday- a mere three days away, might I add- I turn nineteen and can officially serve alcohol in the mighty boozed-up state of Ohio. Oh happy day!

Despite my boundless sarcasm and cynicism, I am jubilant at the idea of a birthday. The various factors that have spawned such excitement are not what they used to be: though in past years and the time of early youth one waited with breath none more bated than that held for gifts, I'm simply happy to have cause to celebrate. It feels appropriate that the slightly monotonous summer should come to an end with my brother's visit, a vacation of my own, and finally, my birthday. This weekend's plans have been carved up with all sorts of delights: accompanying Bryan to a work party that, unlike previous, wretched work ordeals, includes half of a theme park and alcohol, a celebratory sushi outing with papa, and a small celebration between Bryan and I on Sunday. He's been teasing me with hints as to what his gift is ( we've code-named the gift “pear bucket” so as to make reference a little easier and more endearing). I look forward to the weekend.

It is a good thing I have this time to look forward to; I've returned to work with three delightful little doubles in a row (if you are going to accuse me of sarcasm and my usual loathsome bitterness, now would be the time to do so). Fortunately yesterday was an incredibly lucrative day- and has broken my record for the most ever made at Lonestar in one evening- but lunch today was not. I hope the misfortune of the lunch crowd will remain in isolation and not prove ominous for tonight's spoils. The air feels apocalyptic, I'm afraid, and I'm already a bit crestfallen because of the tragic finale of HBO's Rome's first season. Thus I would not be surprised if the evening returned me to my home with less than a twenty in my ragged pockets. Honestly, why on earth did they kill off Julius so quickly? All within one season Caesar is already dead? And Niobe as well? How necessary was that? Good lord, within three new episodes we'll already see Augustus' mistrust of Marc Antony begin to boil. Bah, I say.

I digress. I don't mean to drag you into this messy HBO business; I'm just so bummed. If they kill off James Purefoy anytime soon, however- I'll admit that it is an unlikely conspiracy, given that he plays Marc Antony- they will be receiving a very angry letter from a certain someone immediately.

Work beckons me, so off I go. Cheers, my darlings, and hopefully your evenings prove fairer than my own.