So, another year older today. Thirty three years since a squawking life form entered the planet that would survive long enough to become me. I’m trying desperately to make this sound epic but, to be honest, it doesn’t feel it. Maybe it’s the usual progression that as you get older, your birthdays get less impressive. Maybe I’m officially a grumpy old shit now. Either way, as always, this event has set me thinking (and for that, I apologise)…
There’s always the pressure to DO SOMETHING on your birthday, isn’t there? Go out, get drunk, have a meal with the family, whatever. And if I decide not to, then there’s the guilt and/or regret. For instance, it’s my thirty-third birthday today, it’s 19:15 as I write this and, so far, I have precisely zero plans to do anything. I had a brief meal with my mum earlier, which was pleasant and understated as it usually is. The rest of the day I’ve spent watching re-runs of Star Trek: The Next Generation. So….excitement. And I feel like I should have put more effort in. Surely I should be out there in the world, ushering myself as quickly as possible through the various stages of inebriation. I should, but I’m not. The crazy thing is that I’ll probably regret it tomorrow; I’ll feel bad for not doing anything and beat myself up about it. That’s just how it goes.
Anyway, I realise that I’m babbling a bit (self awareness for the win!) so I’m going to leave this as a brief post and move along. I’m not going to share this one on Twitter, either. It’s just an ill-conceived, pseudo-emo whine. I hate these kind of posts, as a rule, as I don’t feel like they really say anything or will be of benefit to anyone. They’re also pretty shitily written. But still, I don’t have anything more profound to say. Not every day can have a moment of intense profundity, I guess. Some days are just…days.
Thanks for reading.