Birthday Wishes, You Can Keep. How I Hate the Presents

I hate birthdays. Not in general but just my own.

The though of receiving presents and cards is so repugnant that I have gone out of my way to never reveal it to anyone.

Some people have weaselled it out of me and I guess that is bad enough.

To me, my birthday is just another day of the year, no special than any other day.

I do not have a problem with giving presents or cards which I seldom feel the need to do. It is just the thought of receiving that gives me the cold shivers.

When people do ask, even people whom I love, I say, “My birthday is next year” which implies that my birthday has already happened this year and that the next time it occurs is next year. It is a neat way of getting out of people doing stuff to celebrate it. Sometimes, though, they ask how many months time it is in and when I mumble, “Fourteen mouths”, I know that the game is up and I will have to endure birthday cake and candles and presents and sloppy kisses from people trying to love me. Damn their skins!

I am thirty-four this year and lest you think this is an age thing, it isn’t. I have not celebrated my birthday since I was nineteen. Or Christmas but that is a different blog altogether.

I suppose that might make me odd in some people’s eyes but that is fine. I can tell you (or write blogs that never get viewed) things I might not be able to say out aloud to people who I know.

I am a broken toy…

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About greebohobbes

All-round irritant, expert swordsman (loves lopping off the heads of ghouls), professional charlatan and outrageous wearer of black cocktail dresses...
This entry was posted in awkwardness, BekHobbes, birthday, opinion, reallife. Bookmark the permalink.

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