Monday, January 9, 2006

Just a reminder: only ten shopping days left till my birthday.

There's really nothing more tedious than people who annually celebrate their existence by turning into a walking countdown, constantly reminding you that forty hours from now is the twenty-second anniversary of their escape from the womb. On this very date, one score and two years ago, the world was blessed with grace never before seen by man, for Mother squeezed me out her vagina in a blinding, radiant light, ushering forth a new Utopia!

So I usually keep my mouth shut, because even though the most important day of the year is fast approaching, I remain considerate of my fellow man.

This means, of course, that no one ever remembers my birthday — or even knows about it — until their special day rolls around. They start gloating about it, and between breaths, they'll ask, "When's your birthday?" Inevitably followed by temporary disappointment: "Aw, I missed it." Meanwhile, I'm always a bit bummed every January 19 cause none of my friends realize it's my birthday, even though it's only posted in my Facebook profile and my Friendster profile (which has been viewed zero times, so I guess that explains that) and my AIM screenname, and most of my hometown friends at least have been to my birthday parties since, like, sixth or seventh grade, back when we were still holding those damn things at United Skates. (What were my parents thinking? I didn't even own roller blades.... Maybe it was the 70's back then and roller disco was still popular?)

I'm tired of being forgotten, so this year, I've decided to advertise early and often, plastering the internet with less-than-subtle reminders and awkwardly throwing an announcement or two into every conversation I have. Stuff like:

Interlocutor: Hi, Jay. How are you?

Me: Aging... In fact, I'm gonna be twenty-four in approximately two-hundred and seven hours. In case you wanted to buy me something.
No, I'm really not looking for free stuff — I mean, I am hoping for gifts and goodies this birthday, but that's not why I'm making a big deal about it. I want recognition. Nothing would make me slightly less depressed than knowing that my friends care that I'm a year closer to my ultimate demise. We could hang out and muse over the utter pointlessness of it all... or we could celebrate the way most people do and block out the existential crisis with alcohol. Either way. Happy birthday to me.