As you can see, I thought yesterday was Wednesday. Even on my birthday, I get the days of the week messed up. I haven’t been right in months.

The year i turned 21, everyone bought me Winnie-the-Pooh things. More specifically, they bought me Tigger stuff. Dolls, keychains, backpacks, t-shirts — I had regressed into a five-year old. No. Three. I know it was three. I even had a button on my purse that said, “I’m 3!”

My dad forbid my mother from buying me any more “toys,” reminding her not-too-gently that I was a college student.

Looking at the gifts I opened last night — graphic novels, DVDs, a Punky Brewster t-shirt and Sirius for my car so I can listen to a man make fart jokes when I drive to work — I knew I wasn’t three anymore. For starters, I have a home. And a car. And a job where I get paid to make jokes.

I’m the luckiest thirteen-year-old boy in the world.

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