I have the best of friends; I have the worst of friends.

It was my birthday on Friday. I turned 275. Things I remember from my life:

1. When my friends told me about "email" when I was 16 and we each got Hotmail accounts so we could go home from school every day and spend the afternoon emailing each other. Email's foolproof system of archiving messages for time and all eternity, even back in 1999, is the number one reason why I can never run for office.

2. When my family got an answering machine when I was 6 and I thought we were like the Jetsons.

3. The Great Depression.

4. Planning out my last 7 years of life in 1993 because my sister told me that the Bible predicted the end of the world in the year 2000.

5. Talking about "the year 2000."

6. When it used to be ok to leave your kids in the car.

7. When it wasn't against the law to not wear a seat belt (I think . . . or, at least, we didn't bother with them most of the time).

8. When "Independence Day" seemed to have perfect special effects--it could never get better.

9. The Queen of Colors.


To celebrate, my friends pulled out all the stops.

My great co-worker Shea threw together a wonderful princess party for me at work.

People I haven't heard from in 10 years and didn't really even know then wished me happy birthday via Facebook.

Anna, Emma, and Isabel gifted me a mini-Queen of Colors

Things were going well. Until . . . I came home from work.

I will probably never recover from what happened. People will talk about this for generations.

The people I call my friends are the absolute most evil, horrific people that have ever walked the face of Earth with the exception of the entire cast of Glee and anyone who funds that program. I am in the market for new friends. Currently white-washing my life of all my old contacts. Sound harsh? Keep reading.

I walked into the door. Went through the front room in my safe-and-peaceful-apartment. Walked into the hallway. Started chatting with Daniel, who was non-suspiciously folding laundry in his bedroom. Opened my bedroom door. And saw . . . this:

In my moment of incredible panic, I immediately turned, and screamed. Screamed with the voice of a 12 year old girl. A scream I didn't even know I had in me. A glass-shattering scream. And I ran. I ran, not for the front door, but for the balcony. With every intention of jumping out of the building and to come crashing down past many floors onto a paved parking-lot. Because that seemed like a better option than staying in my home. With it.

Don't worry--there's a video:

And so you can see what it looked like from my perspective, there's a post-experience video. (Don't mind my ghetto sleeveless shirt. This is a workout shirt--I don't normally wander around like that.)

Anna was wonderful enough to also capture this shot from the video to upload to Facebook.

These people tried to make up for their abuse by throwing me a surprise birthday party just a few hours later. I have no memory of it, however, because I was still in shock. Nonetheless, I have to admit, I do have some pretty wonderful friends (NOT the ones involved in the prank) that showed up to the party and made me feel like one lucky guy. Big shout out to my uncle Will who let this take place at his house. And here are some pictures of the event.

(Photos courtesy of Maggie Liveri)

Opening a birthday gift to find a picture of Jane Seymour, someone some of my friends and I have an unexplainable, ridiculous, obsession with since she visited Salt Lake City in December.

Me and Jane

And don't worry, Jane came with wood blocks. I was hoping I could arrange them in a way to say "I don't want no bunny banana frog ok no way!"

With a locket that has Jane Seymour's picture inside (I really don't fully understand the Jane Seymour thing, but whatever).

~It Just Gets Stranger