January 13. 3 AM. I open the keyboard of my cellphone. Ten years pass between the time I tap on the “Internet” icon and land on Facebook. Another ten between the flurry of well-wishers and wall posts I wish didn't exist or a were a day premature. It's not that I don't enjoy birthdays or that I'm not anticipating that first legal sip of beer. It's that none of these Facebook posts are from the person I want them to be from: my professor. My makeshift daddy when I was living in the dorms-states away from my cat and my dog and my guinea pigs and my bi-curious parents. His shoulders were smaller than my fists, but he was the closest thing I ever wanted to a man. I'd seen the men in my older mother's police reports. I knew what they were capable of doing. Still, my heart jumped a little when I first used the word. Maybe the idea of calling someone “daddy” filled some profound psychological need my two mothers couldn't, even if they attended all of my soccer games and went into debt just so that I could drop out of the most expensive school in the country. Maybe I just liked the letter “y”. My friends, the ones who graduated, are coming up later. I've invited them even though I have no place to live. I'm hoping they'll bring food. Or at least a drink. Anything I can guzzle.