I have a birthday coming up on Sunday. I keep having people asking me if I’m doing anything for it and the answer is trying to wish it away. Truth is I’m feeling even more distaste for it this year than usual. Great, one year older, one year closer to my metabolism slowing down and my skin losing its resilience. I’ve looked bad enough lately, rough and lifeless and dull, and if I’m getting to this point at twenty-fucking-four it’s all downhill from here.
I hate birthdays, fear of aging aside. I say that every year, though I think I’ve reached a record high for hatred this time around. I don’t believe people should be feted just for existing. I’d rather celebrate you for something you did, and I’d prefer the same for myself. Frankly I could use a whole mess of people paying attention to me and treating me like I’m special, pathetic as it is, given how badly I’ve been feeling lately, but I’d rather it be for something estimable I did rather than something I had nothing to do with. Plus my parents just spent a bundle to fix my car and are still trying to buy me a birthday present, which just seems disgustingly wrong to me. I’m not four, for Christ’s sake, I’m twenty-four. I no longer must be treated as if my simple existence is something worth rewarding.
Bah. Stupid birthdays. Stupid aging. An I just die at twenty-nine before I hit the ae wall like a ton of bricks?
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