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I should have written this earlier – like on my actual birthday, last Sunday, but I was too busy having fun (watching Star Wars (yes – STAR WARS – the original (remember when it just used to be called Star Wars and not episode IV, before Lucas released those travesties he called prequels?) – we both came out in 1977 so I figured it was befitting), going out to breakfast and eating lots of cake) and then the rest of the week was filled, as usual, with chasing around a crazy mobile baby (oh my stars, you guys, crawling babies move fast and they are not at all interested in holding still or staying in one place – plus… she just started standing up – DUH DUH DUUUUUUUH) and working and blahbitty blah stuff.

But anyway, here I am, posting about my birthday. And how it feels to be 36 (which sounds so much older than 35. Why?). And how every year my birthday causes me to reflect not only on the year that just passed but on all the other years and all the other birthdays (THIRTY FIVE PREVIOUS BIRTHDAYS. I have now had THIRRRRRTY SIIIIIIX birthdays!).  Some of them were good birthdays – like the ones from my childhood when my mom used to throw fun parties for all my little neighborhood friends, and some of them were total shit – like my 21st where I was dating the WRONG guy (I think we were actually engaged by then – gag) and in his turdishness he didn’t really do anything for me so we ended up doing what we always did which was drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes at the coffee shop,  or my 26th (give or take a year… I’M OLD! IT’S HARD TO REMEMBER!) which I spent by myself wondering what the hell I was doing with my life (and again, why I was involved with the current moron (different idiot than the previous one (man I’ve dated a lot of stinkers!))).  But mostly they were just… birthdays. A small 24-hour window whereupon you think “hey, I’m a year older”, like magically THAT DAY you BECOME a year older even though really it takes the whole year for you to become a year older, it just passes by with such lightning speed that you don’t notice until that day when the number clicks over and everyone calls to say “happy stuff and things” and you lie (lay? I hate lay, lie, laying, lying – I’ll never get it right – pfffft) in bed awake that night going over every other birthday (ALL 35 OF THEM) and trying to remember what you did or didn’t do and who you did or didn’t do it with and then it becomes you lying (laying? PFFFFT) there thinking about your entire life and trying to attach dates to memories and/or friends and/or lovers and/or events and LORD but it’s exhausting.

Or maybe that’s just me.

Birthdays are strange.

220px-Death_star1

pic stolen from wikipedia

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