It was a great birthday. Everybody was so cool about making me feel special which is secretly all that I want in life-- to be the center of attention. Dad kept crying during dinner because he still feels like I'm four. It was really cool because we all just sat around the table with each other for over an hour talking about our good family memories. No dysfunction. It was really nice.

I meant to do my laundry today, but I didn't. Shit. I don't think I have anything to wear. Maybe I have time for an emergency load.

As far as I know, Erica is downstairs sleeping on my bed because she is a complete dork and thinks it's really cool if she drinks. But it isn't because, I'll restate this one more time, she is a complete dork and I'm a little concerned about the way that she has romanticized alcohol. I sure as hell don't want her passed out in my bed.

The worst thing about my birthday is that it is also my biological mom's birthday. (When I simply say 'mom' that means my step-mom and when I say bio-mom that means my father's first wife. I have mommy issues. Whatever.) And I got her card in the mail today. "Love you forever and ever -Momma" Yeah, well it's kind of funny cuz I'm not a fan of you. It doesn't even feel like she's my mom and so I hate getting shit from her on holidays. This time it was a $100 gift certificate to Hot Topic. I'd rather die than shop at Hot Topic. Yes, I'm sad and scary, but in that unique lesbian way. I am not of the high school mall rat breed. And now I feel like she just wasted $100. After all, she gives me gifts for her benefit. I'd just as soon not get anything from her at all. My sister called me today and I talked to her for a little while and then hung up before she had the chance to ask me if I wanted to talk to bio-mom. Part of me feels guilty, but I don't want to talk to her. I don't want to see her. I don't want to hear about her. It doesn't feel like she's my mother. I honestly don't even remember exactly why I stopped talking to her, but I don't want to start now. I really just want her to leave me alone.

The last time I talked to her, she just kept telling me about all of the things that she'd buy me if I came to visit and how she'd help me pay for school and buy me a computer. I don't want her money. That's never what I've wanted and she doesn't get it. She never has.

Maybe I'm the one who's fucking this all up . . .

I don't want to talk about her anymore.

Dad and mom gave me money to buy some clothes with, some new lotion and some candy. And they're paying for my tattoo. Dad and I are going on Wednesday to pick out designs and then hopefully we can get them done on Saturday.

I also got a lovely little card from Bridget. It was so cute. She wrote me a little note inside in which she rambled about how she thought I was cool and wanted to hang out with me sometime. Said she was glad to finally get to know me better, as if she had been waiting for the chance for the past three years. And she was embarrassed, too, because she didn't want me to read it while she was around which is why I think she didn't come and sit by us during lunch today.

I wouldn't go so far as to say that I think she likes me but I think she's a little . . . ummmm . . . curious. Seeking out lesbians as a means of confirming what she already knows. Hell, I did it too. We queer folk flock to one another. Of course, a birthday card doesn't necessarily mean that she's a lesbian but it's a theory that makes sense right now. The whole thing didn't really change the way I feel about her. I'm not insane over her again. But I'd be willing to give her the big bad lesbian tour (sexual liasons at no extra charge if you act now). I'd be willing to ply with her for now, but as soon as I can find one, I'm capturing myself a gritty, fucked up gender-queer chick.

But it'd be really great if Bridget came out because then we would have a beautiful spectrum of lesbians at school. Bridget could be the sweet baby dyke, Cedar the typical dyke, Amanda the NASTY dyke, Molly and Cassie the disgustingly devoted couple and the Anna the . . .

what the hell kind of dyke am I?

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