You know what?

It's my birthday.

Yep.

Whoop-ti-frigging-do.

No reason for the link, by the way. I just liked the cake.

Anyway. Birthday. The only reason I mention it is because I didn't have anything else in mind to talk about. I don't want to sound like a spoil-sport or anything, but I honestly don't go in much for celebrating birthdays and haven't for years. It's one of those things that I don't really get, as a matter of fact. I didn't actually have a lot of say as to when I was born. It just sort of... was.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not saying that birthdays don't deserve a little recognition. Mothers should be allowed to celebrate birthdays. I mean, they're the ones who put in the work, right? If a mother wants to take a day to remind her offspring that so-and-so many years ago s/he caused her a fair bit of inconvenience (ha! Inconvenience, she says. Can you tell I've never had the "inconvenience" of having a child?), that should be her right. My own mother used to take particular delight in reminding me yearly that I was two weeks late and took my own bloody time in getting around to seeing the world, and good on her. I sure as heck didn't mind the ribbing.

Nowadays, though, I don't really see the point in making a fuss.

I might change my mind next year (and no, I'm not saying why. Wheat knows. Go pester him if you're desperate), but for now a birthday is still just going to be the anniversary of the day I was born.

And for anyone thinking that the prevailing mood of the blog lately has something to do with this non-party funk, I'll just say that it doesn't. This is the way I am about birthdays in general.

No fun, yes.

But at least I don't hate Christmas.

Oh, maybe I'd get more excited about the whole thing if somebody bought me a card.

Or... not.




I think I'm done now.