My Birthday

It's supposed to be my birthday, or at least the date claims it so. I should be waiting for a surprise party that will never come and an overpriced present that would make me feel guilty. But as the typical goes, I don't really care about my birthday. Well, at least I don't care too much for the fact that I was born 20 years ago. I stopped counting how old I was becoming when I hit around the age of sixteen because it seemed futile. I guess if people actually followed the legal drinking age, turning older would mean more but we all know we can go there to grab a drink. Maybe following the law kills all the fun. The end truth is this: in most instances, we don't really care about our birthdays. Rather, we care that other people care about our birthdays. Follow me? Perhaps, then, birthdays are better used as a means of marking stages of life. The realization of a year's worth of fruitful, or unfruitful, work is often realized when there's a date set to commemorate the pacing of a set amount of time.  It's a measurable amount of growth that is palpable to the mind. It's a good thing that either people celebrate or forget our birthdays, so that we can remember it as joyful or filled with contempt. Regardless of which, we can't deny either as memorable. These saved memories serve as checkpoints for the next year, usually ending as a quick and efficient analysis of the time since then. I think a year is fair to judge, short enough to realize that a year ago you were still foolish and long enough to hardly believe that there's only two years left in college.

I think, almost undoubtedly, there's the automatic and quick turning of the mind to all things negative. The whimsical moments of realizing that nothing's really changed with that and the relationship is still like this plague what should be a generous shock of awareness that pulls you out of that and this. The static things have even turned for the worst. What was considered love a year ago has turned into stupidity and the nice guy act still nets you last place in world emphasized on survival of the fittest, with "fit" defined as douche. The work you had done in class last September seems either completely rubbish or utterly forgotten. We exhibit the fastest of improvement and the quickest of degrading, putting further pressure on how short human life truly is. It's certainly the easiest to think about the bitter hardships, from sympathizing with a fellow friend's broken heart to finally coming to the conclusion that, for a lack of a better term, all girls suck. Until you see her...

Which I don't mean to hail up and praise for all eternity. If I did see that girl on my birthday, I wouldn't be typing this right now. Or maybe I would because I'd get rejected... and so we're back to the last paragraph. But maybe that's what makes all of that pointless. It's an inevitable cycle of drowning in misery on a day that marks an eventual coming of age and change, essentially a huge emphasis  on renewal and a blank slate. It's okay to be bitter about not receiving any presents or being slightly jealous that a Facebook event wasn't created in hopes of rallying a few dozen people to surprise you with a chorus of happy birthday. It's even okay to regret the money you spent on a friend that you know will never gift you anything back. In the end, nobody really cares that you turned twenty years old but the few who buy birthday cakes do care about you, as a person. A cake from relatives may seem boring and expected but it's still a showing of love that is often hard to replicate. I fully expect to receive a ton of happy birthday wishes on Facebook, which I'm hoping will spotlight this blog post, but there has to be an acknowledgement that it's all a social fad and there's absolutely nothing wrong with that. For some people, birthdays are an avenue of socializing and that's okay too.

For me, I'm just looking forward to seeing how dumb I currently sound when I look back next year.


Love Part 2

My First Wedding