“It’s My Birthday.”
“It’s my birthday,” I want to say to every person who gets pissy that I am asking for ID and every underage person who is trying to charm me into hooking them up. “It’s my birthday, and I am stuck here checking IDs so STOP GIVING ME CRAP.” But I don’t say that. I don’t say that to anybody.
And the strobe lights are in full effect, and this endless dubstep crap is probably having some kind of adverse effect on my DNA or something, and my nose won’t stop running and I thought I was over this goddamn cold. I want to say to people, “I hear this music can make you sterile!” But I don’t. Even if it were true, why would I want to warn them? I don’t care.
It’s my birthday.
My job requires me to stand outside a room well stocked with Jameson that I am not allowed to drink on shift. Everybody around me is drunk or high, and I am so very, very sober. This guy comes up to me, wants to put his stuff by me, asks me if I will watch it for him. “No,” I say. “That’s not my job.” What I want to say is, “I don’t wanna be responsible for your shit, take responsibility and don’t bring the crap you don’t want stolen.”
But I don’t.
My mother is giving me the silent treatment over an issue she never discussed with me. She has been doing this since before the holidays. I didn’t hear from her on Thanksgiving. I didn’t hear from her on Christmas. I didn’t hear from her today. I spent the day wanting to write to her and say, “GROW UP. It’s my birthday. Talk to me if you have a problem, goddamn it.”
But I didn’t.
My friends (and some members of my family) have been reminding me of how much they love me. Because of them, and the donations they have made, I am within spitting distance of being able to afford a much-needed new computer (got some extra cash, Gentle Reader? Don’t be shy!). My cousin sent me pics of the custom guitar he’s making for me. I have received words of love and support from so many people.
And every time I remember that, it matters less that I am working, arguing about identification, listening to dubstep, and being sober on my birthday.
Well, maybe not the sober part. Let’s be honest, that’s a burn. I am writing this post at work, on my phone. I should be drunk texting beautiful women. Maybe next year.