When people get angry, they reveal their true feelings about you.

It's when you're being yelled at that you discover, for example, that the person who you've ired thinks you are lazy, and worthless, and hopeless, and a variety of other adjectives ending in -less.

And, after that, you understand that most of the time (when you are behaving inoffensively) other people either just ignore your faults or supress their urge to point out your more disappointing attributes. This is because most of the time it's possible for people to imagine what you do and do not want to hear about yourself.

But occasionally someone will say something offhand (and not in anger) that reveals a plain truth about you of which you yourself were only marginally aware. And, although it's relatively easy to do some ignoring of your own when you hear it once from only one person, as a variety of people ranging from immediate family members to total strangers begin to tell you (without coming right out and telling you) that you are a bad singer, that you are a bad songwriter, and that you are going bald, you begin to believe them.

And then you can't decide which hurts more: having your ego blasted on purpose or accidentally.

Today I turn 23. Since I am now too old to rely on my fall-back material, I figure I should come up with something original. Believe me when I tell you this presents a considerable challenge.

After all, what does one say to commerate being 23? Elation at having to wait only two more years before being able to rent a car, perhaps? Or getting marginally cheaper car insurance? Either way, I can't say that the sensation is overwhelming.

I suppose I should be feeling nostalgic for the years gone by. But I do that on a regular basis. Ditto for being rueful that I squandered my youth. As you can tell, my options are getting pretty limited here.

It's times like this that I wish my family had practiced that annual ritual of making me stand against a doorframe, putting a notch it in above my head, and taking my picture. Then, at least, I could put the pictures together into a flipbook and, with a fick of the wrist, watch as the years fly by.

I've lost my cigarettes.

A nearly full pack of Marlboro Lights, to be exact. I'd only smoked two cigarettes out of it, both of which were quite enjoyable. But now it is but a distant memory.

Losing a pack of cigarettes reminds me of my first ever encounter with smoking the non-wacky tobaccy. I was thirteen, maybe. As usual, all the other kids were alot more advanced in the use of illicit substances than I was. Being afraid moral, of course, I lagged behind them. Specifically, I would not smoke cigarettes. (I wouldn't really do anything, but that detail doesn't really serve this blog entry.)

We had walked for several miles to go see a girl. The reason being that her father was supposed to give us jobs repairing computers. That or she was supposed to have sex with us, I can't really remember. The trip was tiring and along a major highway and several bottles had been thrown at me from moving vehicles, so you can imagine my displeasure to find that the girl was not at home.

On our way to the house, one of my compatriots had found a nearly full pack of Vantage cigarettes on the ground. Naturally, I'd initally eschewed his offer to share this roadside bounty with me, but, as we turned to walk back home, frustration overcame me, and I desired a self-destructive release.

"Hey, can I get one of those cigarettes?" I asked.

I don't remember much about it, to be honest. I probably didn't like it -- they were Vantage cigarettes after all, which probably explains how a pack full of them ended up on the side of the road. But there it was, the beginning of my career as a smoker.

I never took up the habit in full, but I would smoke here and there over the years, sometimes buying my own packs (though never Vantages), and sometimes sharing them with interesting people.

Some troubled nights in California, it seemed as if my cigarettes were my only friends. And some cold mornings in Indiana, it seemed as if they were the only things keeping my blood from freezing.

Sure, they're bad for me, but they have always been there for me, punctuating the most exciting, most drunk, most fun, most miserable, most full, most romantic, most human of all my experiences. So if you see my pack of Marlboro Lights, please, tell them I miss them.

Here's an interesting factoid: In 2003, I spent $1,212.61 at restaurants. Is that high?

Undoubtedly you have come to my website to read my thoughts about the 76th annual Academy Awards.

Probably you are expecting me to point out that there were three separate Internet movie piracy jokes, which indicates the non-propaganda opinion of the Hollywood elite regarding the 'threat.'

You've no doubt clicked over here to read my pontification on how it was a pretty boring show in which the freshest bits (other than the above mentioned jokes and Blake Edwards awesome Lifetime Award acceptance speech) were merely regurgitated references to past Oscars and how this is endemic of the general level of excitement coming from the cultural intelligencia. You might even be expecting me to link to my similar post about the MTV VMAs.

You may be expecting me to lament that Bill Murray did not win for Best Actor in a performance that was melancholy and nuanced, or that Ken Watanabe did not win for Best Supporting Actor in a performance that was poetic and pensive. You might have come here expecting me to be happy that Lord of the Rings finally got some much-deserved recognition, though a little wistful that my dark horse, Lost in Translation, didn't come through.

Maybe you are expecting me to whine about the most important thank-you of all -- the one "to the fans" -- got a mere spattering of applause from the people who's pockets are lined with millions from ours. (They should have all stood up and cheered.)

Perhaps you're looking to read a Seinfeldian observation regarding the identity of writers of the alleged jokes that the stars delivered time and again to a quiet crowd.

Well, I hate to disappoint you.