It Really Wasn’t That Hard

Getting born, that is. It’s this time of the year again. You know that sentimental feeling that sometimes overcomes you and you can’t even tell why? Some people get it on Christmas, some get it when they’re alone on New Year’s Eve and some might get it on September 11.

I got it today. It’s my birthday.

What is there to celebrate? It’s not like it took me some effort being born. Now if I would have survived an abortion or something, but no… it seems like all went well and *gasp* - they wanted me!

Not many people I know will remember it and it doesn’t make me mad at all. I’d rather be left alone on this occasion. I never tell anyone and the people who know either don’t know what day it is or they figure I don’t want them to call.
Except for some relatives who never seem to forget this son of a bitch was born a couple of years ago. I consider not answering the phone all day but I always forget about it when it finally rings which makes me sorry as soon as some old fart I barely know suddenly claims to be concerned about my well-being.

I don’t even know why it gets me down every time. It’s certainly not my age. I’m still in my 20s and I ought to be full of the joys of life or shit like that. Too bad I don’t give a shit about complying with the life some manager guys in shampoo commercials are trying to exemplify.

Maybe it’s that deep down I’m expecting this day to offer me something special and the fact that it’s always the same old tired shit makes me kind of sad. Or maybe it’s a sudden awareness that another year went by in which I brought nothing to the table. Sometimes that seems to be the only thing I’m actually good at. Getting nothing done. Besides ruining my liver, of course. And crying like a bitch like I’m doing right now.

Somehow, celebrating your own birth reeks of arrogance to me. The presumptuousness of some people who force it down everyone’s throat year after year nauseates me. You know, the folks who think you’re worth it will tell you so regardless of a date on a calendar. Or better yet, they don’t even need to tell you because they make you feel it whenever you get together. Some silly inside joke told late at night at a bar when you’re both at the edge of sanity from too much drink or some other stuff is worth a million empty “Happy Birthday”s.

The last birthday I remember was when I was 14. And that’s only because I woke up and couldn’t breathe. A trip to the hospital and a severe laryngitis make me remember that one. I never celebrated my birthday after that. Some of my best gifts since then were a three-pack of BECK’s and a hilarious poem that dealt with the author fucking my girlfriend along with some lubricant. You know what they say about the small things in life (and I’m not talking about my package for a change).

I woke up really hungover this morning, didn’t even remember the day and when I got home I stayed in bed until three in the afternoon. I thought about going out but what the hell is there to do on a Wednesday in a rather small town? I tried playing guitar but the pain in my recently broken finger almost killed me. I spent most of my day reading, listening to some piano works by Liszt and drinking some Scotch and about an hour ago I finally got over it and decided to write down this shit to get it off my drunken chest.

Birthday can suck my fucking dick. And if you think you should wish me luck now you can do the same instead. Figuratively speaking, of course. Unless you’re female and have a mouth.


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