Sorry Dearest. I’m a bit late with this note.
I presume you’ve already perused the “About” section, so I can begin my usual rambling?
I was born at 6:13am to the song Amazing Grace (which I hope was being broadcast on PBS). I know this because since the boom of cell phone communication, my mother has sent me a text at 6:13am reminding me of the whole ordeal along with the deets about its mis-en-scene.
I am now 22. As in:
“Ahm Twahaunte-Twoo foa-hah mohmen…Sheh-hee feehl beehttah thahn evhah hen we-here hon fyah-her…Mehakin ah whay bhack frohm Mahas.
Anyhow, I’ve survived long enough to experience this quaint little lyric in this oatmeal commercial of a song. I mean, I’m still pretty early in the song/my life, so that’s good. I’m alive. And I’m”young.” Yet, actual birthdays just aren’t the same psychotic, cake-crammed, balloon-blasted, euphoric lunacy that they used to be. My parents practically had to exorcise the tyrannical birthday demon out of me as a boy…usually, like, a week later.
These days, I’m just not into them. And why should I be?
I hate other humans.
This will probably be a recurring theme on this blog. I really only had one cause to celebrate my birthday and that was the day I was born. Don’t make me beat a dead horse. And don’t tell me I should be happier. You won’t want to hear how, what, or where I think you should be. I hate a hoopla. I hate a fuss. I hate commotion. Just let me sit in my dark room and wallow in my lukewarm disposition. I mean if it my damn day, do me a favor and let me enjoy your silence. Sturdy, placid silence may be the best gift you people can provide in most cases. That or Legos. And don’t even get me started on the kinds of randos that come out of the woodwork for the old b-day… But this is going to become a rant about how horrible high school was and my horrifying emotions, so I’m gonna can it for when I turn 23.
**As an Addendum to this, I hate other people’s birthdays when they get in the way of mine. I’ll save this for the Birthday Wars.
I’m a big fan of getting gifts for myself. And I’m tired of getting shit for it. I love me the most–that’s why I’m a “writer.” I’m also a huge fan of asking directly for gifts (but not so much the guilt that comes with it). I don’t mean to sound like a typical Gen-Yer, but if you’re the kind of person that I can assume will probably get me a gift, I’m going to make it easy for you. This year I asked y parents for a reasonably priced bed. I needed it because I slept in a cage (the IKEA Tromso loft bed). Okay, it was a cage I bought on Craigslist, but still.
Okay I’m a dick.
Another thing that sucks is the placement of my birthday. I have to compete with Christ. Also, I’m not stranger to the old Christma-Birthday Gift. Now I sound spoiled. Well, to be fair, I’m the youngest boy and I’ve even stolen my older brother’s birthday once because I was upset it was his…
Chiiiiiildrenn get ooooolder; I’m getting oooooooolder.
At this stage in my life, I can actually feel my youth slipping away from me. And I’m watching my life get faster. People around me are saying things like “401(k).” I don’t wish to drop a heck of alot of f-bombs, but this shit is fucking bananas. I got like bills. And like I have to remember to eat and shower without anyone telling me (although I do skip those when I can). Life is just, scary and angsty. Like the first half my life was running. College was the running jump.
This is the free fall. Or the careening down a cliff while hitting assorted rocks and branches. Its really however you wanna look at it. Life was once dreaming, and now that I am awake, I can see with the soul of a four-year old that living is really just extra slow dying.
So be happy! It’s your Birthday!
Hello, this is my crippling fear of death that guides me.
Like many of you, I really don’t have a will to live.
That came out wrong.
Like many of you, I am a creature of impulse. On the ole’ day-to-day, I’m not living, I’m just staying alive. I’m surviving. I’m motivated by one thing: fear. At the end of the day, I just really don’t want to die. That would just be a pickle. I mean, it’s fun to imagine what kinds of women will be dancing on my grave, but I don’t really want to have to actually die. Each birthday is really just another lap in a race we don’t understand or know the length of. Each “Happy Birthday” is actually quite terrifying. Thanks for reminding me of my impending doom.
It’s really hard to enjoy anything if you think long and hard about it.
Of course my birthday will include a nice gift bag of neurosis. Of course. But its time to end this meandering. This was a bad blog post. That’s an honest critique, not my self-esteem. I’m new; they’ll get better, I promise. then again, I’m only wasting your time, Dearest, so I don’t care.
Three days before me my Dad turned 57. Then I turned 22. And for the most part, I’m not totally happy, but I’m pretty okay with the ratty person I’ve become. I’m not shit. I “like” myself. Each year I find myself wanting to do less and less. But its no matter. I just hope that a year from now, I’m closer to doing something that matters, instead of this solipsistic trash. Maybe something I don’t try to forget at the end of the day.
Still. We should all be content. I’m not a big believer in forcing happiness on people, but we should be content on these days at the very least. In my case, I’m taking the advice of Five For Fighting:
“Ahm Twahaunte-Twoo foa-hah mohmen”
Here is to this year and the next. Let’s make it count.
Or don’t. I’m not sure who I’m addressing anymore. I don’t care. Screw you. My WordPress V-card is officially taken so hopefully these’ll be shorter and more succinct. I’m probably going to force my girlfriend to edit and give me note on these…and provide me with topics that I can digress from…