I ******* hate birthdays. Well, more accurately, I hate my own birthday. I hate the obligation of it. The expectations of a day about myself and how it was so glorified in my childhood. People would gather, be happy, and enjoy each others company just to show how much I am loved. And for one whole day, people would think of me. What *******. What ******* ******* it is to expect people to gather all in one place when I don’t even have friends to go out with on a Friday night. And how selfish of me to assume that on one day my ‘friends’ would surpass the stage of shallowness to think of anyone but themselves. And I know how entitled I sound, but I promise I’m not because I have never expected such things to actually happen. I would never dream of them extending out of the realm of delirium. They are just nice thoughts. Nice, selfish thoughts.
Another chapter to the absurdity of birthdays is the wishing of “happy birthday!” Oh my god. How awkward. I want to be wished so, but also not at the same time. I do feel happy and even honored that someone will take the time to say that to me, but I feel that if I don’t act bashful that I would come off as self-centered. But also when my close friends, and occasionally when I do have a boyfriend, don’t say anything I feel sad and dreadfully insignificant. But then I remind myself that the world does not revolve around me and then I feel guilty for feeling sad and no one should feel guilty for feeling sad.
And through writing this out in hopes of finding enlightenment to my long tradition of hating July 6th, I have just come to the conclusion that I am in fact not fit to function in this world.