Why Birthdays Suck

Before you get all huffy about my post’s title, calm down. Breathe deeply and visit your happy place. Okay, this isn’t all about you. Shocking, probably, but true. Your first hint was the fact that you’re on my blog site. The second is the opening explanation. PSA: today is not my birthday, and no I’m not telling you when it is. We are within artillery range of it, though.

The opening explanation would be that this post is most specifically about my birthdays. They suck, and while I’m okay with that, what I do have an issue with is that for 40-odd consecutive birthdays in a row everyone around me insists on making a big fucking deal out of it. I guess I could lop some years off that figure since as a dumbassed little kid I was won over by the presents. Oh, and the cake, which Mom expertly baked upon request. Mmm… cake.

I’d also caution you against assuming that I’m one of those types that freaks out about getting older. I’m not. After a ‘cute’ phase, I enjoyed something close to an ‘appearance doesn not make one vomit’ phase. Somewhere in my early 20’s things just slid downhill from there, so I’m well adjusted to the fact shit will simply not improve here anymore.

To be quite honest, I truly dislike being the object of everyone’s attention, like when you’re sitting there surrounded by presents and a flaming chocolate cake and your audience is sort of waiting for you to either say something profound, wet your pants in extacy, or perhaps pass out from the heady rush of the moment. I don’t get it, because it’s one of those “You are unique and special … just like everybody else” moments. Besides, in spite of the carefully-researched list of books I normally provide upon request for shopping ideas, things like socks and underwear always managed to sneak in there. Dammit.

The thing about birthdays I understand the least is the entire fucking point of them, which seems to be the marking of yet another revolution about the Sun. As if I had a clear hand in making that shit come off successfully. Instead of a hyper-perky, caffienated-cheerleader-esqe “Happy Birthday!” I’d love to hear something like these phrases instead, which are more appropriate:

“So, you managed to not die yet. Good job, fucktard.”

“Yeah, 42 laps so far. Wow. Bet you have no idea when this race is over though, do you?”

“Congratulations on surviving yet another year.”

“Accomplish anything yet? … No? … Holy DMV lines, Batman, you’re fucking patient.”

All that of course assuming I have to hear anything at all. Ideally the best way in my world to put up with a birthday would be to hear absolutely nothing at all. And yeah, I know: I’m a cranky dickhead.

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For more suckage: Why Getting Old Sucks