And it was nice for a while. Just another Tuesday. Wake up, drag the dog around, pick up poop, make coffee, drive to work, slack, drink lots and lots of coffee.
Facebook ruined everything. Not the Facebook you know. Not the Goldfish one, the other one. The one that’s under my real name attached to people I know in real life that I never, ever look at.
Yes, I have two Facebooks, which is odd for someone who hates Facebook. I spend way more time on Facebook as Goldfish than as me, which is to say about one minute a day. I don’t spend time on the other Facebook anymore, because my mom is my friend and that took all the fun out of it. Now, I feel like my mom and other assorted relatives are watching my shenanigans and I can’t be myself. I only keep that Facebook around because friends still insist on inviting me to things through it.
Anyway, my mom, party pooper that she is, posted a happy birthday thing on my wall which set off a birthday chain reaction thing and people I know have been happy birthdaying all day. While nice, it makes it impossible to forget that it’s my birthday and I’m older now.
I’m really not a fan of birthdays. I’ve never had a great birthday. I’ve had some that haven’t been half bad, but a lot of them have been disasters. I tend to treat them like Valentine’s Day–keep my head down and watch the seconds tick by until it’s over.
Normally, I wouldn’t post a post like this for two reasons. 1) It’s a crap post, insignificant and meaningless to anyone, including me and 2) it is the type of post where people will wish you a happy birthday because A) maybe they feel that by writing about birthdays, you’re subconsciously hoping that someone would wish you happy birthday or B) they would want someone to wish them a happy birthday if the situation was reversed.
Well, neither A nor B apply to me. I’m not looking for birthday greetings. The only reason I’m writing this here thing now is because it’s tradition. Every year, since I was about twelve, I write something on my birthday. I’ve been doing it for longer than I haven’t at this point, because I’m old now.
So, yeah, tradition. The thing is, when I started birthday writing, I was twelve and blogs didn’t exist. I didn’t post it on here for all the world to see. And thank bees for that since nobody wants to read my twelve-year-old scribblings, not even me.
Every year, I think, well, why do I have to write something on my birthday anyway? Tradition schmadition. Who cares? Not me! It’s not like I ever go back and read my birthday blathers anyway. Maybe this year I’ll just skip it, but then, something won’t let me. Here it is, 4pm PST, and I’m writing something about birthdays on my birthday, because that’s just what I do. This is the sixth annual birthday post on this blog.
I don’t have much to celebrate this year, but then again, I don’t have anything to really bitch about either. Life is pretty even keel at the moment, which ain’t all that bad. Now, where did I put my birthday booze?