Birthdays Suck

Sometimes I'm a cynical introvert with no desire to speak to anything with a mouth and reciprocating thoughts. Other times, more frequently in fact, I come off that way while trying to challenge or defy consistent social norms that have no purpose other than to uphold traditions older than the concept of common sense itself.

Mostly I just dislike birthdays.

I didn't even remind anyone when my birthday was this year. If my computer had ears, it would probably hear you asking "Why, asshole?" Since that's likely the reason why you were roped into reading in the first place, I'm obligated to answer. Interestingly, that ties well into my first point: Obligation.

Say someone of value to me decides to delve deep into their metaphorical "piggy bank" in order to provide me with something I've been verbally longing for. Great. There are few things I hold in high enough esteem to appreciate as a gift, first of all, but I can't say that, since that means their time and most likely their hard-earned-yet-frivolously-cast-aside money has been promptly squandered. I'll accept most presents without much quarrel (sometimes), but the transaction doesn't stop there. Most people expect you to do something equally "nice" for them; be it return the expenditure on the date of their birth, or do them a favour at some point in the future. Whatever it is, it's oft accompanied by a dark and menacing cloud of debt, in which you'll find me. Even if I were to encounter one of the rare few who don't intend for me to keep that balance, I'll still feel like I should. Right now. Forever.

I don't act as though I can read the minds of my various acquaintances and targets of emotional investment, family or otherwise. As such, I can't possibly fathom what others might be desiring once the one day of the year that they're mildly important to work strangers happens to trundle in and invade my senses. Unless you tell me outright, constantly, incessantly, I'm not going to remember what you want. Come to think of it, I have a difficult time remembering when the fuck your birthday is in the first place. There are just so many and they're almost never in close proximity to each other. It's like taking the same aggravating memory exam each year, just as you've finally forgotten what it is you're supposed to memorize.

There's so much emphasis already on the date, individually, that piling even more celebratory measures upon the heap of one's happiness seems unnecessary to me. Especially since birthdays are so un-special. They're literally as common as human beings are. There are several each day. Odds are, someone's singing that awful song right now. More importantly, what's the significance in childbirth in the first place? Every mammalian species does it (discounting some genetic abominations, like the platypus, or some stupid flightless bird which isn't even a mammal really anyway). Whales give birth, and from what I hear, it's gross as hell. People swim in that all the time, especially if they live on a tropical island.
Think about that for a second. You're swimming in diluted whale placenta and poorly-aimed semen.

Happy birthday.