I never talk about my birthday ever. But I do, however, enjoy when people remind me about their upcoming birthdays — months in advance.

“I can’t believe I’m gonna be 27 in less than six months. Yep. December 17th. Can you believe it? It falls on a Friday.”

Cool, I’ll be sure to leave town that weekend. Because birthdays are annoying. Everything about them. For one, what are you talking about? This isn’t the thirteenth century. There’s really no need to celebrate surviving another year. The only people who should be excited by birthdays are old people. And when you’re old, you know what you get for your birthday? You get a fucking phone call. That’s what you get, and you’re grateful. It’s what old people live for. “Can’t wait for my birthday so I can find out if my grandchildren are still alive.”

And then there’s always the burning question of what are we going to do for your birthday. I mean, seriously, what the hell are we gonna do? We gotta figure something out. It’s your birthday for chrissakes. You are having a birthday! We can’t just do what we normally do with you when it’s not your birthday – you know, ignore you, treat you like you don’t matter and talk shit behind your back. We should go roller-skating or something!

If anyone should be celebrated on your birthday, it should be your mother. Think about your mother’s pussy right now. Do it. Think about that horrible day when her vagina ripped down the seem and her pussy and asshole united and became one so you could make your way into this disgusting world. And then take her roller-skating.

Great. Now I can’t stop thinking about my mother’s pussy. Poor thing.

Sometimes having a birthday party is unavoidable – like when your friends throw you a party. Which is the worst thing ever, because birthdays are really just contests to see how many friends you have. That’s a game I’m not very good at.

My best friends made this huge party for me and my only responsibility was to be liked enough for people to show up. Not an easy task since I’m extremely unlikeable. As soon as those invites went out, I started sweating. What if nobody came? I had to do something to make sure people attended. So I began doing charity work for everyone I know. “Hey Morgan, need a car wash? Or a dick suck? You know my birthday’s this weekend….(gulp)”

The Big Day arrives.

I get there a little late, giving everyone some extra time to get there. I can’t show up before everyone else. I’ll let a little crowd build and then they’ll applaud me when I arrive. “Yay, Steve! We love you on your birthday!” It’s gonna be great. I’ve played this scene out in my head all week long. When I arrive, my friends’ backyard is decorated beautifully. Lights everywhere, tons of alcohol laid out on long tables sprinkled with “Happy Birthday!” confetti. There are bowls of chips and salsa and Margaritas as far as the eye can see. And to top it all off, they hired a Mexican Taco Vendor who’s on standby – tortilla in hand, ready to make 500 tacos for me and all my friends.

Wait. Are my friends allergic to tacos?

Because there’s no one there. No one except the one random guy I invited three days ago after accidentally running into him at Starbucks. I can’t fuckin believe this guy came. I barely fuckin know this douche bag and here he is – gift in hand. What a fucking loser.

Me, I mean.

And then my friends who threw the party come running out shouting, “Hey, Birthday Boy!” And I want to vomit, but I hold it together. “Hey! This is so awesome! I can’t believe you got a Taco Vendor!” (Why the fuck did you do this to me?) “Do you have a phonebook?” Because I want to hire a bunch of extras right now. I’m willing to pay them scale if they’ll pretend to be my friends for the night.

Oh my god. I can’t believe my birthday’s only ten and a half months away. August 9th.

It falls on a Monday.


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