Let them eat cake-but not mine!

Today is my birthday. Or so says my birth certificate. My “mother” even has a charming little birth story to tell. But personally I’m not buying it. You see I’m a firm believer that I was stolen away from my true family and sold for a gallon of homemade wine and a freezer bag of high grade Acapulco gold. Even as a small child I had a distinct dislike of manual labor, Tiffany taste and an air of superiority. If I truly had hippie blood coursing through my veins would this be true? I think not. I have faith that my “real” family is royalty or at the least filthy freaking rich. Maybe Russian. Perhaps my given name was Tatiana…I’ve always like that name. I’m sure they are out there somewhere desperately looking for me. Perchance one day they will find me. I’m sure my true birth mother would fall to her knees crying out in Russian-in despair over the mediocrity of my life. After all I was to be an heiress, on the cover of tabloids, hounded by the paparazzi. Instead I’m a nurse living in near squalor. They would beg me to come back with them. But would I? I’ve grown to find my “family” rather charming-in a disturbing way. But if I did go back…this morning when Peyton refused to say “Happy Birthday” to me---I could have sent him to the dungeon to be tied to a rack until he consented to honor me.