More specifically, I don’t like my own birthday. I used to love my birthday, and not just as a child. Throughout my twenties and even into the beginning of my thirties, I was still all about the birthday. Drinks? Sure. Presents? Aww, thanks. Cake? Why the hell not? Undivided attention? Yes, please! But no longer. I suppose it started changing once I finally realized that if I kept on having birthdays then one day I’d be forty. And who the hell wants to be in their forties? Not me. Definitely not me.
My birthday this year, well, it was horrid, terrible, painful. Devastating. I found out the man who said me loved me, the man I loved with all my heart, had a wife. Happy birthday to me, indeed. It was the night before, to be specific, but still. My birthday is tainted, oh yes it is. My birthday, already not my favorite day to begin with, is now the day I forgot how to breathe, the first day of many I spent on the floor crying, the day I couldn’t open my eyes. I didn’t talk to anyone, go anywhere, nothing.
I think I had a point when I started this post, and I swear it was supposed to be a small positive one. Hmm. Oh, right . . . I bought myself a present, that was the point. I bought it a month or so ago, when they first announced them, but it will soon be here and I am trying to be happy for something every day. So, I’m being happy that soon I’ll have a new Kindle Fire to play with.
Oh yes, and I feel empty, alone and unloved. Also vaguely panicky, but none of that is positive, so I’ll save it for another time.