.july eleventh. yesterday was my twenty-first birthday. it's an odd thing - the past few years i thought that it would be such a neat thing to be able to go places and drink legally, not hide my drink or feel guilty or even have anyone go out to the store and buy me a bottle of wine. now i can do these thigns myself, and they aren't very interesting. i went out at midnight saturday night and bought a bottle of wine just to prove it. i did have a wonderful birthday, my boyfriend bought me a skirt that i had been wanting and took me out to a lovely restaurant before we went to the club. i think i had a total of one drink on this twenty-first birthday of mine, and i ended spilling two-thirds of it all over myself, producing a sticky, irritating mess. i feel old. am i supposed to feel old at this age? i'm looking back at just the past few years and thinking that i've produced nothing so far in my life. my biggest goal has always been to write, and to produce good writing that is full of emotion. i've never had expectations for working or getting through college (although i do love learning and am struggling to get my degree in english;) maybe i've just never seen myself as conventional - growing up, getting a job, and laboring through life. really, i don't want to see myself that way. i want to be the fluidic dreamer, based on water and silver and sentiment; i've never wanted to be the worker with the starched collar, who passed by hopes and dreams and simply settled for an income.