Happy Birthday to me

I haven’t looked forward to a birthday since I was a kid, and in fact dread the day for the most part. 42 birthdays is more then enough to be over the whole situation. I had a stretch of birthdays that were not just not good, they were fucking rotten and so I could care less about my birthday. I stopped getting presents for the most part when I still lived with my folks so that’s not there to look forward to. When asked what I want for my birthday, depending on who’s asking the answer is usually nothing, unless it’s my girl in which case I want a blowjob. There are no more milestone birthdays that allow me some kind of new privilege, like 16 or 21 or 25. No more dreadful birthdays like turning 30 or 40, 50 don’t seem as bad as 30 and 40 did. It’s just another day anymore, a day I’d rather passed as quickly and quietly and with as little fanfare as possible. It’s just a reminder that I’m one year closer to being done with this body. An excuse for why my body hurts so bad. I was born at 7:24 pm so technically it’s not really even my birthday till then and it only lasts for a few hours so we could just as easily say fuck it and not recognize it at all. But with social media being what it is it is virtually impossible to slide on through without someone saying something so it is what it is. Here’s to another day above ground. To good friends and great family. And to me getting a blowjob tonight. Happy birthday to me.