Damn it I forgot to name this post. There we go.

It appears I get worse at this as the days go by. My seriously slow internet at the moment is not helping. Neither is the whisky. But I shall just cut to the chase. Today’s disillusioned post is about birthdays. Firstly, I’d just like to ask


Who on earth decided to invent these? Did someone just sit under an apple-tree someday and go “Oh I know what would be fun! If I start harassing one of my friends every single year on the anniversary of his birth and throw prettily wrapped socks at him and give him a cake that will set fire to his beard!”? Really? No, it was probably a grand-mother. So she could have at least one day a year to give her grand-children all those things that the parents think are unhealthy for them and stuff them full of sugar and send them home for someone else to deal with.

I’m sure there’s someone out there who knows why we celebrate birthdays. In that case, please chime in. I’d love to know if there’s any good reason for them in the first place.


is so awesome about them? “I’m still alive a year from the last time I was still alive! Yay for me!” It’s not like you are celebrating someone else’s achievements. If that was the case, I’d be all for it. But we’re simply celebrating that this person, on a time-line that we ourselves have invented – for some other ungodly reason – is still alive. I even have a dead relative whose birthday I pay my silent respect to each year. I don’t think she cares. I don’t know why I do. But in the deep recesses of my brain, in some place where it actually works, I take note of the fact that that was the day she was born. Why is that so important to me?

Now if you love yourself very much, I’m sure birthdays are the best. But for me, and I’m assuming a large chunk of humanity, they are just a day when you should be allowed to stay in bed a little longer than normal, yet you’re dragged out of it early by manically smiling people going “IT’S YOUR BIRTHDAY!” and down the stairs to open presents in front of the people who gave them to you, and everyone else, and go “uh, thanks, this is a really awesome swiss-army-umbrella-cake-cutter-picture-frame! I love it! Re-ea-lly!” and they stare at you with their manic smiles going “I KNOW IT MADE ME THINK OF YOU I TOTALLY DIDN’T JUST GET THAT AT A TOURIST-SHOP ON MY WAY OVER!”  upon which they SING for you – as if things couldn’t get any worse – and make you blow out candles on a cake that they lit about 10 seconds ago – total waste of candle – as they stare at you with manic smiles thinking to themselves “SHE’S NOT GOING TO MAKE IT, SHE’LL NEVER MANAGE TO GET ALL OF THOSE IN ONE BREATH, HAH, JUST WAIT TILL HER NEXT BIRTHDAY, THAT’LL BE FUN…” and then there’s probably some stupid party or supper or something. Unless of course, you go to a restaurant, where they will make the staff publicly embarrass themselves and you by performing whatever birthday-rite the sadistic owner invented.


It’s the number thing. We invented them, stuck them on ourselves and then decided that we arrange our lives after them. We don’t expect people between 13 and 19 to act mature because they are teenagers. We don’t expect people above 50 to remember anything because they’re our parents. We don’t expect people below 3 to be able to use a toilet on their own because they are really short and tiny. But, these things aside, the number that we stick on ourselves creates a whole lot of rules and unwritten rules and weird looks that we have to abide by. It hinders us in so many many ways. We tell ourselves that we can’t do this or that because we’re a certain age, and that we can’t do that now but we can in ten years, and we were stupid then because we were so-and-so old. But let me ask you something. Do you really believe that age and maturity are that closely related? I have met a lot of children who act older than their parents, and a lot of 40-year-olds who seem like they never left their teens behind them.

Ok I’m going to stop whining now. I’d like to hear from you on this. Your birthday, do you love it or hate it? What do you think is the point of it? Why? WHY?????


5 thoughts on “Damn it I forgot to name this post. There we go.

  1. Well… aren’t you a cheery soul.
    I can’t help but notice a certain “Irish” influence in this post. You certainly seem to be doing a good job of emulating the man.

    We seem to be slowly exchanging places here… Your blog posts get funnier, as mine become more serious. Of more concern though, is that you seem to be better than me at THAT as well. Sometimes I really hate you! Though never for very long.

    About birthdays: I really don’t see what everyone complains about. Considering what day mine falls on, I should have far more to whine about than you do in this regard, but you don’t hear me going “Woe is me! It’s just terrible! My birthday is overshadowed by this much more important day… how will I ever cope with yet another year?”
    Yes… your friends and family love you, and they like the opportunity to show it. Get used to it!

    I look forward to your blog post on the evils of Christmas, and how it simply encourages people to kill turkeys and be mean to reindeer with unfortunate facial disfigurements.

    Seriously: Love your work! Keep it up. 🙂

    1. My blog-posts only become funny when I write about things I dislike :p Because I can’t write about that seriously, that would be a hate-post. Can’t do hate-posts. Unless I write about mosquitoes. *gets brilliant idea for next post*

    2. I was thinking the same thing: what did you wake up to this morning?
      I agree that some birthdays are over-the-top and grotesque in expenses.
      We all die at some point.
      Still, it’s nice to get a present once in awhile no?

    1. No no, you don’t understand! Breakfast-in-bed and awesome amethyst necklaces will ALWAYS be appreciated! Just not the birthday thing in general. Like, do you really want me to do that Indian cooking thing again next year? We barely survived! 😀

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