I've been playing Parachutes and Twentysomething all night. Coldplay has always been my melancholy soundtrack, and Jamie Cullum... my crooner.

My 364 days of unbirthdays are over... they all seem short and useless when THAT day arrives. I always get this mixed feeling on the eve of my birthday (Gawd! just saying typing that out loud makes me cringe) I simultaneously feel like a child on Christmas morning and a schizophrenic awaiting electroshock therapy. I could never pinpoint the cause of this antsy anticipation because I really dread each +1 candle cake. An anticipation for time travel? for oblivious bliss? for my own Aston Martin?

I love those short tapered wax candles. Each supposedly represents a year of your life... irrelevant and burned into nothingness in a few minutes. They represent a year lost... a year where I should've read more books, a year where I would've seen the eerie monoliths of Easter Island, a year where I could've done this, could've done that... Shoulda Woulda Coulda Barracuda...

I love the cake. That beautifully crafted confection that goes straight to your thighs... that chocolate filled temptation with the scrumptilicious frosting and your name in icing you cut up into slices... that sweet, sweet reminder that you don't have the same metabolism "x" years ago.

I love that song. That happy happy four worded song that really drills the message "you ain't getting any younger" right into your right ventricle... that song which everybody knows, everybody claims to own, and everybody apparently commits a copyright infringement crime with whenever they sing it... that step above "for he's a jolly good fellow" that always necessitates your widest, most pseudo-genuine smile after it is sung to you and before you almost die of respiratory arrest from blowing out the candles.

I love the expectation to be "happy" and to feel "special". This is after all a "happy birthday"... just as "theory" always has "conspiracy" tagging along with it, "birthday" is lonesome without "happy". I love the wholehearted attempt to really be happy that often ends with either a migraine or an aneurysm. I love teeth... I love dimples... I love crow's feet... I love smile lines... I love straining the muscles n my face.

I love Brooke Shields and how she bashed Tom Cruise's skewed views on prescription drugs. I love Clint Eastwood and how he committed euthanasia on a Million Dollar Baby. I love Chris Elliot's obsession induced rashes on There's Something About Mary. I love Colin Farrell, just for being Irish. I may not know them personally, but we share a bond in birth.


I love (and I say this without an iota of sarcasm) my family and friends. They make this day bearable, sometimes even... dare I say it... may I not be struck by lightning... happy.


For the love of all things sacred... Don't Sing me that Song... or if you do, sing me a "Sometimes Happy (But Never Required To Be) Birthday To You"...

I'll be normal in June... well... like happy, normal is a relative term.








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Labels: alternati, B-days, boo-freakin-hoo