It's tomorrow. The 24th of March. At this time on March 23rd 1994, I didn't exist (well, I did, but not in the air-breathing real world). That's funny, a time when I just.. wasn't. I can't imagine it (no kidding).
Happy birthday to me.
Happy birthday to me.
I feel like I'm hitting my midlife crisis thirty years early. Seventeen is old. I figured it out yesterday: Thirteen, fourteen, and fifteen are really just preparing you to be a real teenager. Sixteen and seventeen you're in your prime. And then eighteen: you can vote; you're adult forever.
I never have wanted to grow up. I still don't.
Birthdays stress me out. I almost hate them (I pretty much do hate them, but people don't like me to say it). Not just my birthday: birthdays in general. I probably hate your birthday. It's the combined stress of parties and presents and remembering the right day and saying "happy birthday" lamely (or "thanks" lamely, on March 24th).
I just don't really tell anyone when it is. And let them feel bad about it sometime in the summer when they say "When are you turning 16?" and then I say "last March". It's fine.
Also, I hate that you have to be fake-nice to them the whole day long and let them get away with saying really stupid things and smile much more than usual. And laugh at their blatantly-not-funny jokes.
The worst type of birthday people are the kind that really milk it for all it's worth. When they request that you do something ridiculous and you refuse, they go "Aw, but it's my birthday" and you have to do whatever it is, no matter how outrageous. It's unjust. It sucks. But unless you want to quickly end that relationship (in some cases you might, and then it's actually the perfect opportunity to get rid of them), you'd better just grind your teeth and buy them whatever they want.
That was the birthday rant. I feel sort of bad because what if someone reads this and their birthday is soon and I come up and say "Happy Birthday! I love you much more than I regularly do and also you're suddenly very attractive and important in my life" but they know that I'm really just sort of faking my enthusiasm? They'll know that I'm a fraud!
Not really, I still like you. Even on your birthday.
Unless I never liked you in the first place, in which case, I probably still don't. Even on your birthday.
You look like a monkey. And you smell like one, too.