I came to a realization yesterday – I hate my birthday. To be more exact I hate the actual date, I would love my birthday if it was on any other day. My birthday is four days before Christmas and it doesn’t help that my brother’s is the day after Christmas.
In the past I have always swore up and down that it in no way bothered me that I had a birthday so close to Christmas, but the fact of the matter is I was in deep denial.
Even on my 21st birthday I claimed not to be upset about it despite the fact that instead of spending it getting drunk with a gaggle of my friends I was stuck taking a physical chemistry final at 7 o’crotch on the Friday night of finals week and all but two of my friends had all gone home for the holidays. Although, I did manage to thoroughly embarrass myself at my family dinner the next night, but that’s a story for another time.
I can literally count on one hand the number of enjoyable birthdays I’ve had since I’ve grown up and stopped asking for dolls every year. The problem is everybody always has plans or are just too busy to worship me for a night.
I wouldn’t mind so much if I didn’t absolutely LOVE my birthday! I love being the center of attention and getting free drinks and really any excuse to get my groove on. Is that so wrong?
This year my best friend will still be in bean town and I have a horrible feeling that everybody else already has plans. I’m tempted to stay home and pout, but instead I think I’ll man up and force my sister to watch every Christmas movie ever made with me (I haven’t told her of this plan yet, but the way I see it is it’s my birthday and people have to do what I tell them). Plus maybe that’s a better idea than making a spectacle of myself on the dance floor anyways. Meanwhile I’m buying myself a purty new dress to cheer me up.