I don’t have much to celebrate this year besides my new teeth and the fact that I am still somehow stubbornly alive. Today is my birthday, and as I’ve done every year since I could write, I write.
I started this tradition many moons ago, before the internet existed. I could quietly write my thoughts in my journal (alright, diary) and no one would see it. Most people didn’t even know it was my birthday at all. With the exception of my family and the odd human resources employee who would spread the rumor at work, no one would even know.
Had I known then that I would eventually write these birthday hubrises on the internet where literally the entire world could see it, I never would have started this dumbass tradition. Alas, here we are. The introverted misanthrope who generally dislikes birthdays publicly posting about my birthday.
Other than these stupid birthday posts, I don’t go around announcing my birthday. I don’t like the attention and I’m a member of the Bad Birthday Club. There are no membership dues or anything. All you have to do to join is have multiple bad birthdays. Highlights from bad birthdays past include an arrest report, a car accident, a black eye, the death of a pet and more arguments than you can shake a stick at. So, is it any wonder that I like to keep my head down?
This year, for the first time in fifteen, I get to “celebrate” my birthday without Male. I get to mark the anniversary of another year on this crummy planet and he isn’t here. I find that extremely unfair. The grief is particularly acute today and I don’t feel like celebrating. So, fuck birthdays. Instead, I made myself a ridiculous cake:
Go on. Have a slice.
And if you haven’t yet, go read Rara’s unintentional birthday present at Stories That Must Not Die. It made me cry.