I never wrote about my birthday. I was in a bit of a bad mood about it, lamenting it like an aging hippy because it’s been a pattern for the last few years that nothing ever happens on my birthday and I feel bad for it. Either I have no one around because it’s in Golden Week, a string of public holidays when most people travel, or my friends, or usually family, don’t do anything for it. It’s gotten to be so familiar that I expect it nowadays, and you know the old saying I just made up: ‘as soon as you expect something it ceases to be a possibility’.
So I was in a bad mood waiting for the holiday to come. I knew this year’s would be extra lonely as most of my friends have gone away after graduation and I don’t know people at my job well enough for the kind of socializing that birthdays require. It takes me a while to let others in. Yet I was pleasantly surprised that my bestie who is still around, let’s call her Cyarine, after one of my favourite artists, she showed up and took me out shopping. It was nothing special, something I do most days I go out, but the fact that someone had made a special arrangement for me, in her case it was taking time off work, it was enough to stab my fears through the heart and tear its little legs off. I felt happy.
We went for some cheaply couponed Starbucks – their classic tea frapacino is actually delicious – and wandered round a few familiar haunts before lunch at the vegetarian ramen restaurant. I’m not vegetarian, I love meat down my throat, but I like different foods. It’s not an exclusive club right? We talked. We laughed. We had pillow fights in nothing but our lingerie… oh,wait. That’s your fantasy. Actually we had our usual bizarre talks that go off on tangents about how certain people might be better off as an animal than people. You had to be there.
Then I went home, had a drink, put on a favourite movie, as is my tradition, and masturbated furiously until bed was the only place I could possibly exist. Great times.