Birthday

My birthday was this past week. A lot of you probably already knew that because either Facebook told you, you celebrated with me, or you noticed that my “crazy” level had been much higher than usual. I’m pretty sure a lot of people are committed to mental institutions for being as loopy as I’d been in the few weeks leading up to the big day.

I have some kind of unnatural love for celebrating my birthday. I’m not quite sure why this is, but whatever the reason, as soon as June rolls around I’m like a cracked out chihuahua on a sugar binge.

You may have also noticed (or not noticed) that, since the festivities ended, I’ve been slightly less crazy than usual. This is because the excitement usually ends up fading into some degree of depression once my birthday has passed. No matter how amazing or fun my birthday is, it never lives up to the hype... the hype that I, myself, create. In order for my birthday to feel as spectacular as I trick myself into believing it will feel, it’d probably have to include something like this:

Or this:

Or this:

Or maybe even this:

Until I become ruler of the universe, I don’t foresee any of these scenarios coming to fruition. But I’m gonna go ahead and say that I’ll never become ruler of the universe either; that title probably comes with a lot of responsibility. Who needs that shit?

At any rate, the post-birthday depression gets a little worse every year. This isn’t just because my celebration doesn’t include fire-breathing giraffes or the world’s largest birthday cake, but also because I’m getting older. Each time that stupid number called “age” goes up, a little part of me dies. Birthday boozing is slowly becoming less about being fun and more about needing to forget how much I hate being an “adult.”

By no means am I saying that 24 is old, but I’m at the point in my life where I’m expected to be “responsible” and “mature.” I’m supposed to do my laundry every week, eat food that shouldn’t go in the microwave and not follow other people’s comments with, “that’s what she said.” I’m also at that place where everyone else is getting married, having babies or is, at the very least, in a stable relationship. This place is awesome (and by “awesome,” I mean, “absolutely not awesome in any way”). It not only makes me paranoid that nobody will ever want to settle down with my crazy ass, but it also makes all my friends think that if I so much as talk to a guy, there’s “something going on.”

You see, that crap is annoying and makes me want to punch things. However, birthday celebrations take away some of the sting. People are happy, excited, drunk and not judging my life because it’s MY day... and what kind of super douche would you be if you brought a girl down at her own birthday party?

Anyway, it was great forgetting that I’m supposed to be a real adult and having some good ol’ fashioned fun... that I may or may not have remembered the next day. I’m looking forward to next year, when I’ll have lived for a quarter of a century. I kind of want to start drinking already...