Wentworth Miller's Penis

Well, it finally happened. 3 months, 12 weeks, 5 staff meetings, 24 hair models, 52 walks to Lane Cove and approximately one BILLION cups of coffee, and it finally happened.
Full time work has brought me down.
I don't feel too bad about it. I think I kept going as long as I could. But there's a time in every apprentice hairdresser's life when they look around themselves, see what they're doing, and realise that coughing half their internal organs onto the client who's hair they're shampooing is just not appropriate. And for me, that time came yesterday. So the bad news is that (and of course, this is not a Jacki-Trew-In-Drama-Queen-Mode exaggeration at all) I'm probably going to die. But the GOOD news is that before I do, I've got some time off. And I'm going to use it to blog.
Aww yeah. You're welcome, Planet Earth. For both things.

Here's something I've been thinking about for a while: Wentworth Miller's penis.
Ha! I'm only kidding. There's only one penis I spend that much time thinking about, and that's the one I often imagine growing out of my sister's forehead. I only said the Wentworth Miller thing because I know if The Navy Man sees it, he'll get really pissed off and bring it up the next time I see him, thus proving that he actually reads/is totally addicted to my blog. Which will of course make me feel great about myself - because everyone knows that the foundation of any healthy relationship is an insane person with a laptop and a high-speed internet connection.
Now, what was I talking about again?
Oh right.
So here's something I've ACTUALLY been thinking about for a while: My 21st birthday.
First of all (because I just wanna get this out of the way) OHHH MY GOSH I HAVE TO TURN 21, SO OLD, I'M GOING TO BE SO OLD, PEOPLE ARE GOING TO START STANDING UP FOR ME ON THE BUS, I'M GOING TO HAVE TO BUY A WALKING FRAME, I SHOULD PROBABLY START PLANNING MY FUNERAL, HOLY CRAP THIS IS THE WORST THING THAT HAS EVER HAPPENED TO ANYONE, EVER.
Second of all, do you think I should have a party?
I love 21st's, but there's so much pressure. Where will it be? How many people are coming? Who's invited? Who's NOT invited? Is there a theme? What's the theme? What champagne are you going to drink? Which dress are you going to wear? How are you doing your hair? How are you doing your nails? How are you planning on killing yourself to avoid all this?
Wow, I'm very morbid today.
Anyway. Baaah, the pressure! I've been giving Madi not-so-subtle hints about what I really want to do for the past couple of months in the hopes that she'll just plan the whole thing for me, but I don't think it's working:

Jacki: Do you know what would be totally disco?
Madi: What?
Jacki: Going to Vegas for my 21st birthday.
Madi: That would be pretty cool.
Jacki: Yeah. And do you know what would make it even more amazing?
Madi: What?
Jacki: If like, someone else, like, I don't know, maybe my best friend, planned the whole thing for me so I didn't have to stress about it or freak out about it or, you know, have my head explode because of it.
Madi: You're right. That would make it more amazing.
Jacki: Yeah.
Madi: Hmm.
Jacki: Yeah.
(pause)
Madi: I'm not planning your 21st for you.
Jacki: Damnit!

Ha. Well, maybe Catherine'll do it. And yeah, you heard me right - Vegas, bitches! It's a high bar to set, but I'm pretty confident. My back up plan is to stay home and cry in the bathtub. Either way, you're all invited.