I am obsessed with birthdays. I love that there is one day every year where you can feel like a princess and it's socially acceptable. It is, in fact, somewhat encouraged. I am especially obsessed with my birthday - but not because of the princess thing (I am a princess every day, Honey tells me so). I am obsessed with my birthday because I keep turning older. And older. And older. I tried to stop the age thing, I tried to turn 23 for five years in a row. I even moved to three different continents to make it work! But no. Someone always knew the truth... and was more than happy to expose that truth. I did manage to confuse many, many people. But in heart - nay, worse: in my mind I knew it not to be true. I was actually 24. Or 25. Or 26 (I actually had a blast in Bogotá that day). I have a few very worthwhile reasons for disliking my real age, and some extremely lame ones as well. After Thailand, when my life took a stand-still in a very boring point and place, I was as...