I had a pretty awesome birthday week. Nothing super spectacular or anything, but it was pretty cool and everything.

Wednesday started the same way it does every year on my birthday—my father and stepmother calling me and singing to me over the phone. Corny, yes, but I’ve always thought it was very sweet despite its corniness.

After work, I played the worst nine holes of golf ever—literally. I almost scored the maximum I could have possibly scored. It was completely frustrating.

Friday, I played again, with a friend of mine who was playing for the first time. He scored better than I did. Twice as frustrating. I just couldn’t get it right.

Then, on Saturday, I played another round of golf (three times in one week is a record for me) with my boss, who had invited me up to the course that our company uses. Played much better this time, well enough to renew my faith in humanity and my own abilities. Now I can go back to my league on Wednesday without fearing that I’ll completely suck. Then, on my way home I stopped in at my parents’ house and they invited me to dinner, so that was really nice. I got home, tried to go see the new Pirates of the Caribbean movie but it was sold out, and then proceeded to fall asleep at around 11:30. It was pretty much the perfect way I could have ended the birthday week, except for the fireworks that I was too tired to drive to on Saturday night. But I probably wouldn’t have enjoyed them as much because I was so tired.