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…