I give up. On the celebration that is supposed to be Birthday Month, that is. It has repeatedly turned out to be a sucky month, more than once, and now I’m tired of the disappointment. Yeah, I said it, and sound like a big baby crying about the unfairness of Life and wants to take her ball and bat and just go home. Well, Birthday Month, you can sort of suck it.
A few examples of shitty birthday month:
One year during the start of Birthday Month, my Fatass-Ex-husband’s dad killed himself. Shot himself right in the head, he did. I remember it distinctly because it was the year I was turning 35, and we had to go to Texas and take care of bidniz. And we had planned a trip to Memphis for my birthday, which I distinctly remember because we had really angry hotel birthday sex that year, as he was feeling distraught and took it out on my vagina. My vagina had to pay the Piper for the dad’s deed and act like a wailing wall or a crying towel. Or something.
Then another year, right at the start of Birthday Month, my Fatass-Ex-husband was discovered to be a cheating fatass-husband and got thrown out of the house, complete with a hillbilly-white-trash-moment police escort (which was ironic, as he IS a policeman!), and earned the “Ex” part of his title. My vagina was sad that birthday, until it found someone to cheer it up, but that didn’t happen until well into the holiday seasons, and by then Birthday Month was a memory.
This year? I’ve had my fair share of troubles this month so far. None of it can be linked back to my fatass-ex-husband or my vagina, which is a step in some direction. In fact, Kenny is doing his part to ensure my vagina does not suffer. But really? Times seem to turn to suck this time of the year, as if somehow The Universe does not understand the rules of Birthday Month.
How did this month start? Oh, with my boobie-non-cancer surgery – that’s right! That morphed into the ol’, “you don’t have cancer, but should take some cancer drugs” discussion, which is weighing heavily on my mind because I don’t want to be making the wrong choice and have to pay the Piper later, because I hate the Piper. He is pretty bitey.
I’ve had more family drama, as hard as I try to avoid it. It’s too much for a stupid nonsense blog, but it’s not helping me age gracefully. I thought my fucking Clean Karma spray would help out, but it doesn’t appear to be living up to the promise.
On a positive note, I met my mother’s friend for drinks and chats on Saturday night. Now, that was a good time! And it was full of a lot of stories. Fifteen years worth of words came out of my mouth. She is a funny woman. And she knows several unladylike things about me – that, coincidently DO involve my vagina – so if I’m ever running for president, I’m going to have to have her as my vice president so she doesn’t sell out to The National Enquirer and give them pictures of me in my teensy-weensy bikini. When I was 16, so yes, it looked a lot better than images of Current Me in a bikini would look.
Perhaps if she has that picture I will scan it in. In fact, that just inspired me to do a whole cringe-worthy photo series of myself through the years. Now that could be an interesting look-back to celebrate birthday month! If it’s going to stink anyway, I may as well provide you, Reader, with a laugh at my expense. Laughter is the best medicine, at least when you’re out of Vicodin.