There's something funny about birthdays to me. I love em and all...I enjoy the rich, decadent, sinful, dark, dessert I make myself; I sure don't mind scrapping a bunch of wrapping paper into a pile to reveal my new possessions. I really don't mind phone calls and checks to put in the bank from grandparents who used to buy me socks and Christmas sweaters.
No, there isn't anything inherently WRONG with birthday celebrations of past years, the past two decades, though the first 5 I don't recall at all....maybe even the first 7. No, birthdays are quite special and should be celebrated, but these last few years have brought this...
sadness.
I really can't explain it in any other way than to say: another year has gone by, and not a whole lot has changed; I feel a hole, a gap, something missing, something strangely familiar and illusive and aggravatingly potent.
I feel like I'm missing out on something I should know and have and hold and that other people have and hold and know. The realization that I sound deranged is quite apparent, I know.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME!
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