My birthday is next Friday.
I don't know why I create giant expectations for that whole thing.
Me: "It's my birthday!"
Real World: "Shut the fuck up. No one gives a shit. You're 23."
Me: "Oh yah..." (inner child destroyed)
What I'd really like is some pink pointy birthday hats and a unicorn shaped cake.
You know. Like the good old days.
I hope people come over for a beer, maybe a hug, and a giggle.
That's all I really want.
I think I want to give a shit because this is my first birthday without my Grandmother.
No phone calls from the Navesink River this year.
I think that's what is giving me some mean blues.
I'm missing that feeling when things are safe.
Maybe I'm feeling this way because the seasons are changing...?
Yuck, forget it.
I'm just being a complaint.