sms to myself: april 1, 2006

I am 33 years old. The age reeks of botox, tennis bracelets, lacoste shirts w upturned collars. SUVs and perhaps a desire to grow my own herbs. Instead i have a fading henna tattoo on my arm, a dead palm on my balcony, and a deluge of deadlines i have yet to meet. The sky is pink, my babies squeal in the background. My mouth tastes of marlboros and i'm wondering if i can ever kick san mig lite.I am 33, and strangely, still feel like i am immortal. There's a motherlode of history in me, and more yet to be made. I feel so alive it hurts.