Sometime, in the vault of history that is also known as last week, it was my birthday. I now have ten years left in my twenties. What are the chances of that happening? Well, pretty much a hundred per cent, considering I was born nine years before the new millennium.
And on my day of ageing, I was asked a few things, many of which were not the normal ones that are expected on such occasion. You know, the ones investigating the objects that you have acquired from surviving another year of life or how you’ll cerebrate the anniversary of your birth.
But me? It’s usually questioning my opinions of having a birthday.
For me, and I may have said this before, it’s just another day to me. There’s nothing majorly amazing about having a birthday for me. And to be totally frank for half a second, I don’t understand the whole thing of showering the birthday person with happiness, rainbows and whatnot just because a few years ago, they where born.
I don’t understand why the special day isn’t a celebration for the parents (or, for those who aided you in your venture through life). They were the ones to aid me when I needed it, they were the ones to point me in any direction that they deemed fit. All I did was cried the moment they cut the umbilical cord the moment it was cut. Nothing worthy of praise, surely?
I mean, look at other celebrations or days of remembrance. Wedding anniversaries are a celebration of how long two people have been together, while stuff like Guy Fawkes night has something to do with the fifth of November or something similar. The point being, most celebrations or special days are because of what someone did (or, I assume that is the case), so that is one reason why I find it awkward to celebrate my birthday.
I shall play the “I didn’t choose to be born” card. Which in all fairness, is totally true. I didn’t decide one day within the world of non-existence “I know, I’ll become living now, considering Guitar Hero’ll be invented in a few years”. No, it was my parents, with their parents deciding my parents’ fate.
Though, that said, I’m not saying that I wish I was not born. I’m ready for what life has in store for me, no matter how hard or challenging it will be.
And now on to the final and rather quick change of subject.
After saying all that (because I say everything I type out loud, makes me feel sane), I don’t mind if people wish me a happy birthday, I just won’t go out of my way to notify others of my birthday.
What do I mean by that? Well, I don’t have my birthday in that dark grey text on my Facebook page, neither do I tweet certain things like “OMG lyk its mah bday in a wk”, mainly because I hardly ever use such grammar in all I do. Maybe in my early texting days when I was forced into it, but no more.
And that is that. That’s me finished with the discussion of my thoughts on my birthday. Let us just hope that I survive another year of human life to see a second anniversary for this little shebang, eh?
I thank ye, world.