As it was my birthday yesterday, I have officially survived another orbit around the Sun.  Now before anyone starts to consider putting “Happy Birthday” in the comments, let me carefully and articulately express my thoughts on this anniversary of my ripping up Mom’s pussy like a paper shredder through a brown grocery bag.

Fuck you.

What the fuck does saying “Happy Birthday” even mean?  It is not even a complete sentence.  It could mean, “Have a happy birthday.”  Which is a command.  How nice to be commanded by hundreds (tens) of people to enjoy a Tuesday.  It could mean, “I wish you a happy birthday.”  Which is a prayer.  Which is literally the least amount of work someone can do and still believe he is contributing.  “In lieu of a gift, or actually making an effort to spend time with you, or sending you a naked picture of my nipples, I’ll just type thirteen letters.  I’m sure the wind-up celestial Monkey Drummer will hear the wish and give him what he wants.”

And fuck you, asshole.  I post that I might not make it to a birthday party and to not worry about including any activities for me, and you Facebook like it?  What exactly did you like?  That I do not get to have a birthday celebration?  That you do not have to get me a gift, which you have not done in seventeen years anyways?  Maybe I was being polite in asking people not to worry about including me, and I am really frustrated that my work schedule makes me feel ostracized from friends and family.  Is that what you liked about my post:  my growing depression and loneliness?  So fuck you.

And fuck you, bitches.  You miss me, but keep pushing me away?  You expect me to side with you over my girlfriend?  You just walk over and take the best freight and leave me with the big and heavy shit?  You stand on your ego pedestal and laugh at the idea of me thinking I am attractive enough to sleep with you?  Well let me tell all of you:  I was the best thing you ever walked away from, women I love will always come first, sexism goes both ways, and I would rock your world with my stunning ability to find your orgasm button!

And fuck you, me.  Telling someone what you would have done in the past is asinine.  You do not know what you would have done in the past.  You were only trying to make him feel worse in some kind of sick revenge plot.  Want to be a man?  Then promise what you will do in the future and then fucking do it, you procrastinating loser.

I am forty-two years old.  While I like to think I have another forty years left, the smart money in Las Vegas says you have between 15 to 25.  Hell, if you have learned anything from recent events around you it should be that tomorrow is not promised.  People lose toes, have heart attacks, go blind, develop erectile dysfunction, and even die every day.  I am not immune to any of the harsh realities of life and death.  But here I am, dinking around like a waste of carbon and water.

What exactly did I have to be happy about or celebrate?  Surviving another orbit?  That is just natural instinct and luck.  So I just went about my business like it was any other day and ignored all the empty platitudes and meaningless drivel that society has tried to convince us actually means something valuable.

It does not.

 

Advertisements