You think 27 is old, do you?

I stood at my kitchen counter and sorted through the mail. In my stack were mostly credit-related items--the fact that the day was my birthday wasn't affected in the envelopes, save a package from Amazon.com from a friend. Experian sent a notice they received my dispute. Trans Union confirmed my correction to my address.

And an assisted living center was asking for my business.

MTV did a fine job preparing me for The Real World

I dug through my bookshelf last night and pulled out a book I had been saving. When Boyfriend moved in, there wasn't room for my entire library and most of my books had to be boxed and now reside in my mother's basement. So long, Why Men Love Bitches. So long, He's Just Not That Into You, and my favored response book: Be Honest--You're Not That Into Him Either, I don't need you anymore. He's into me. He's into me so much that he hasn't yet complained about the pink quilt he sleeps under every night.

However, I didn't save this one book for me; I was done with it. Instead I saved it because I knew one day I would be passing it along to someone else. Who that person was, I wasn't sure, but someday someone would want to read this book, and I wanted to be able to pass it on.

It was my book on the quarterlife crisis. I've actually mentioned this book before:

I ended up in a bookstore one afternoon and in the dollar bin was a book about said quarterlife crisis and I bought it. When I get home, I open up the book and read about the author. She was a perky blonde who's my age living in Washington and working for the White House. This is her second book. "Eff this girl!" I screamed at her picture. She embodies everything I wanted for myself. That girl doesn't know crap about what it feels like to do everything right in life and to stare in the mirror and see a loser. I took a marker out of my night stand and drew all over her face. I'm a courtly lover of books: I won't crack the spine or dog-ear the pages. I won't do anything to destroy the pristine beauty of a book; I love them too much to deface them. I drew over her picture like hell. This was how much I hated her.

And when I pulled the book off my shelf last night, because it is finally time to pass it along, I noticed that I had written in this book. I was so depressed when I initially read it that I had scribbled my angsty arguments all over the margins in a terrible scrawl: one that develops when you've either been out of school or out of work for far too long.

In a new light, I read my angst and howled with laughter.

(Click for big on any pic)

(I'm standing behind my bullshit statement on that one.)

On living with your parents after college:

On some dude saying how awesome it is asking his parents for advice:

And my personal favorite:

What about the chapter- So You Did Fail: What Next? Advice for people who can only get work waitressing if her sister calls in a favor.

I can only hope the next reader will do me proud.

Sasha

My father, who is not a movie man, declares Doctor Zhivago his favorite film of all time. He is not quiet about this opinion, speaking of it often and nonchalantly. As I think about it now, it almost seems he works it in conversation. What are we watching? Some dumbass movie? My favorite is Doctor Zhivago—great love story. I used to think he said it because it was probably the only movie the man had seen.

When I saw the film appear on TiVo the other week, I decided to record it and see what it was all about. For three hours I watched my father's favorite love story unfold: a man who leaves his wife and child to live with another woman and raise her child. All of a sudden, the reasons why my father loved this movie so much became apparent. And I grew sick to my stomach.

For I was Sasha.

Happiness is...

• Bobbing my head along to the opening song of the newest episode of The Hills (especially when there are two new episodes in one night)
• Finding a peanut M&M that had rolled away from its brothers and sisters two days ago (it was still delicious)
• Big Brother 9 (despite the cast is a singular group of fuckwits)
  

Happiness is reality TV and old, uneaten candy? Um, erm...