My Birthday Exile

Here’s the deal. I hate my birthday. I always have. I’ve never looked forward to it. Not because I’m getting older. I’m fine with this. I have no problem with being one year closer to death. I’m actually looking forward to this because I’m insanely curious as to whether or not I’m right about there being nothing after we die. But, enough about that. I just simply hate my birthday. I LOVE other people’s birthdays.

Yes, I realize it’s a double standard.

Yes, I realize it’s irrational.

But, considering everything else in my life in insanely rational, I think I’m allowed this one irrationality.

I wish to ask that anyone intending on giving me well wishes and wishes of a happy birthday, refrain from doing so. Maybe someday when I’ve accomplished something that has made my life stand out from the rest of the mindless masses that populate our world, I’ll be more inclined to celebrate the day of my birth. In other words, when I have a life worth celebrating.

I realize that someone who says “Happy Birthday” is doing it for one of two reasons; a) they feel obligated to, or b) genuinely wish me a happy birthday. Fine. Those that are in the A column, fuck off. Your lip service to being happy about my existence is trite, insulting and I neither need it nor do I fucking want it.

To those who genuinely wish me a happy birthday, thank you. I realize that your heart is in the right place and I love you for it. However, I can’t simply pretend that something every few years doesn’t happen to remind me how much August 16th sucks. Oddly enough, a cousin of mine will be born then, so take the wishes you would give to me and give them to him. He will just be born, so he’ll be devoid of the broad spectrum cynicism and pessimism that the day has always seemed to give me.

August 16th is always a day of upheaval for me. If nothing happens this year, that just means I dodged a bullet somewhere along the line and that the next years bullshit will hit me that much harder. I can list a litany of shit that has happened to me and around me on those days that really make me think that if there is a God, the only thing he really wants for me is for that day to be a plate of steaming dogshit. I realize some of those will think that I’m being drama-whorish, and that’s fine. You can eat a bag of dicks.

My phone will be off, my voicemail will be changed to something offensive to discourage messages, my Facebook and Twitter will be untouched and my door will not be answered. August 16th, I will be hiding from the world and immersing myself in drinking coffee and whiskey, video games, writing and books. Please do me the courtesy of extending me the same ignorance. Again, not that well wishes aren’t appreciated, I just simply don’t have the stomach for it anymore.

If this comes off as angry, congratulations. You’ve hit all the context clues properly and deserve a star on your homework for exceptional reading comprehension. If you are one of the people who will still insist on wishing me Happy Birthday even after you’ve read this, I won’t be insulted, if you won’t be insulted when I ignore you.

I’m just glad I only have to deal with this bullshit once a year.

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