Happy Birthday? Probably Not.
Every year on this particular date, I wake up with Morrissey singing “Unhappy Birthday” in my head. Yes, I’m one of those people who hates birthdays. I loathe them with a passion immeasurable. Why? I can give you a number of reasons, but the biggest is my fear of growing old. So birthdays are a dreaded event in my life, for with each passing year it becomes a little harder to accept my age. I never tell anyone my real age. I do NOT condone lying–it’s bad karma–but age is a state of mind, and I can’t believe that I’m as old as my birth certificate claims. Besides that, I’ve been trying to ignore my age for so many years now that I can’t immediately remember my true age. I’d have to do the math, which I refuse to do. I certainly look younger than my age, and everyone believes me to be years younger than I am. So that’s nice. But I’ve reached the age where I don’t get carded like I used to. It’s so depressing to go into a club or bar and NOT get asked for my ID. Yes, it does still happen, but not every time. That really saddens me.
I guess it sounds ridiculous and childish to say that I don’t want to grow old. But I sincerely fear old age. I fear the physical suffering, the mental deterioration, the loss of all my friends and family members, the loneliness, the poverty. *shivers up my spine* I can’t talk about this anymore. It’s freaking me out. I’m not old, but each year I get closer to being old. And closer to death. OKOKOK MUST change the subject pronto.
What shall I do for my birthday? Well, as luck would have it, I’m sick with the flu. And there’s no alcohol sold on Sunday where I live. And I’m strapped for cash. Oh, yes, and Mother Nature hates me. So I have a feeling this is going to be a shitty birthday. No party, no booze, no sex… What’s the point of even trying to celebrate?