A couple of weeks ago, I turned 50. The big five-O. Half a century. A cause for much partying and merriment? Possibly.
That’s what other people do, so it must be right. Right?
Even to me, a life-long disliker of birthdays, it felt like a big deal.
However the problem with being a serial disliker of birthdays, it that it is easy for people to misunderstand what it is about birthdays that I don’t like.
I like cards. I like presents. And I like cake even more. I clearly like all the key, component parts of a birthday, but there is something that makes me really, truly, deeply dislike this day every year. The problem is that I’m clearly not smart enough to figure it out and after 50 birthdays, it’d be a fair bet that I’m never really going to.
I sat alone on my birthday this year. I didn’t see or speak to anyone. No-one whatsoever. I did get three cards however. Happy fucking birthday.
The person who invented birthdays should shampoo my crotch!
(Jack Nicholson, As Good As It Gets, 1997)