Samoas are yummy

So, it's my birthday. I've found that once you reach a certain age; i.e. anything above 21, birthdays aren't too exciting. You still have to work; you don't get to buy an excessive amount of scratch tickets and cans of Copenhagen for your father. You don't get to wear a velvet dress anymore. (Side note—I totally had one too. And I was a hottie in it, but I digress.) You don't get a piñata or tickets to visit your neglectful mother in Florida. You don't get attacked by a hot guy with a bad toupee. You can't try to seduce your cold skinned boyfriend who is protecting his "virtue" whatever the fuck that is…You don't get dream catchers from muscled boys who speak basic Spanish. Oh wait. That wouldn't happen to me at all...

Do I need to knock a bitch out to wear velvet again?

Instead, I have to work, which is fine I suppose. I have gotten some pretty sweeet presents including a wilted daffodil and dollar store lotion. Ah, the perks of teaching two year olds...At least I get to gorge myself on Girl Scout cookies.

See even Rob likes them. He wants me to have a happy birthday...

So to be as narcissistic as I am. Happy Birthday to Me!

It's Ink I think.

I love tattoo's. When I was seventeen I lied to a tatto artist that I forgot my ID in the car. To which he replied "I don't care just give my forty bucks." So began my tatto extravaganza. I am a huge pansy so after I get one I say never again. Then time passes and one day I get impulsive. Every tattoo I have was impulsive. As Twilight is my whole life right now I am trying to tell myself that I don't need a Twilight tattoo. But my self control is wavering. Originally I wanted to get this one.

Then I thought go big or go home. If I'm going to do this I need to do it right. As inspiration I give you some of my role models.

I'm not understanding the tree. The Meadow?

Placement matters. Next to the sunflower really?

It took me about two minutes to read this.

And my personal favorite.

Nothing says sexy like punched in the face Edward

I tease but I am fairly certain the next time I've had a few too many mojitos I will be laying face down in a leather chair being worked over by some guy named Shit House Martinez. And the final product will be better then all of these. I guarantee you.