Bah humbug. Twenty-seven™ years have passed, and somehow, the little confused ape of a foetus that was plucked from its cosy home within the womb now finds itself flailing in the open air. I bet it even fantasised about growing up according to twenty seven years later bitching about it on social media "birthblogs" where supposedly sane adults wax poetic on the traumatising event of clocking another year older. That’s not a thing is it?

Members of our species jump all up and down around some choreographed dance in order to alert strangers about children being born into and ultimately escaping mother's warm confines. Guests even show up babbling happy words along with a token present or trinkets adorned with fat numbers covering gifts, while everyone has to pretend gratefulness instead of feeling shame from both consumerist complicity AND participating in ritualised disappointment; capitalism has surely won by now. As if this would make ANY DIFFERENCE to anyone’s life.

What are we actually even celebrating anyway? “Ladies and Gentlemen gather here, tonight honours the exact day mum agonisingly pushed me out of her womb, a squalling wet mess covered in blood and sweat, screaming my lungs out at the indignity of it all as I was rudely ejected into the cold unforgiving air”. But apparently gushing out of mummy’s gut warrants a cheer. “Ta da! Woot woot!” Foetuses just everywhere popping all sorts of proverbial corks these days. Why should anyone care about this cosmic accident, except, perhaps, dear old mum who gets to revel in the memories of her own physical agony—yet even she forgot about it this year.

Anyhoo, isn’t it somewhat of a strange thing to celebrate ones existence based on something as impersonal as planetary movement - a humanised number, a numerical coincidence - but I suppose stranger things have been celebrated by humans before? Maybe someone out there throws a yearly party on the anniversary of their first ever perfect bowel movement 💩. Whatever crumbs of meaning we can muster to get us through the daily grind. And yet here I sit, writing about it for reasons unknown. Perhaps compelled by familiar habit or simply seeking connection (or attention?). In any case...

As a child, I remember thinking it funny to imagine living past twenty years old - why would anyone want that? - yet I’m still here, grandpa and all. I actually used to get excited about birthdays back then, but now they’re just annoying reminders that I’m getting closer and closer to my own expiration date like a cartoon character running towards a cliff edge while looking straight ahead. It's truly Groundhog Day-esque living with this knowledge, except without Bill Murray and his quirky charm – more like Garfield minus Jon Arbuckle and Odie's unwavering companionship. I mean seriously, who decided this is actually fun, and MORE importantly since exactly NONE OF US get out alive – WHERE IS THE LOGIC IN CELEBRATING INEVITABLE DEATH EVERY SINGLE YEAR?!

This is not rhetorical - answer me in the comments - can someone please tell me why anyone actually bothers celebrating birthdays beyond age 5? Is it maybe due to pure nostalgia for those pivotal days while expecting massive disappointment come age 10+ knowing exactly what lies ahead when birthdays lost their novelty somewhere between sweaters featuring demeaning dinosaur prints and sticking names onto otherwise forgotten envelopes binding arbitrary affections?

Oh well. Nothing really happens on such an insignificant day anyway; no grand revelation nor a declaration of victory against time. For me, particularly, nothing at all - no gift to wake up to, no wonderful friends screaming ‘happy birthday!’, no birthday dinner, not even a fucking slice of cake. Just. another. uneventful. day. My back pain is still here reminding me of my disintegrating bones and I still need to scratch my itches, go to work, sit in traffic, piss every couple hours, schedule my crying, deal with bureaucrats (etc etc), and just generally feeling way too adult. Not much connects today as opposed to several others going by, hoping only the constant striving goes away after long years within this prison of flesh often referenced to externally as ‘Ali’.

Why am I complaining?

Odd-order birthdays freak me out.
Another grey hair sprouted somewhere this week, apparently demanding recognition in numbers too.
People always ask how you want to spend your birthday because they get this false impression that something special or unique will happen just because the date scrolls over on a calendar once again. They say "What do you plan to do for your birthday?" and I am compelled to make up some lousy plan so not to sound like a lonely loser even though everyone knows deep down that it's mostly bullshit and routine stuff what makes up most people's lives regardless of the wallpaper background of their annual memories. Why can’t we just be honest and say “Well pal, I will wake up and pass wind several times and shit and piss and probably watch some television or something”?
No one remembered my birthday.

Anyways, cheerio for keeping reading. Let's probably talk (complain) together. Soon. #getoffmylawn