At exactly 10:45 am I will officially be 25 years old.
Am I supposed to feel any different? I’m bad at birthdays, at being the birthday girl.
I never like to make a big deal out of it. I take it off of Facebook specifically because it bothers me that people have to be reminded that oh yea it’s her birthday we should probably write on her wall. Writing on my Facebook wall means less than nothing to me. I’d prefer it if people didn’t, but I know the people who matter – the ones who remember all on their own – will write there in addition to calling and texting me and that’ll start off a chain reaction where everyone sees it on their newsfeed and suddenly are reminded of it.
Even having my relatives, the ones I don’t talk to and haven’t been close to in years, post on Facebook is irksome.
Honestly, I’d prefer if they just forgot completely. Which isn’t as depressing as it sounds, or maybe it is. I just don’t feel like my birthday is a big deal and I’d rather have those that actually matter remember it. I don’t like being the center of attention. I don’t like that all of a sudden on just a normal day, all of these people are thinking about me. Some positive, a lot negative.
Did you know I cry every year on my birthday? I never told anyone that. Sometimes just a little, sometimes its a flash flood. But it happens every year on this day and I haven’t been able to figure out why because there is no logical reason for it. I live a good life.
I’m not a perfect person, and I certainly don’t like being examined under a microscope. I just do what I do because it makes me happy. I try to do the best I can, I try to always be kind, I try to do as much for those I love as I can, but hey “I’m only human and I bleed when I fall down, I crash and I break down.”
Happy birthday to me.