It's that time, again...

Birthdays. The perpetual anniversary of the day you popped out of your mother's womb, slimy and caked in fluid, wrinkled and crying. People rejoiced at the confirmed existence of an innocent, still ignorant to the ways of the world. Anti-abortionists can argue the point all they want, but you really aren't alive until you're born into that white room with the antiseptic walls, the forceps and the rubber gloves. The doctors snap the ambilical cord, wrap you in a blanket and proclaim another human being. Success! We have a girl, or a boy, or a future college dropout. A lawyer. A scientist. Today, we have a new life waiting to be wasted or fulfilled. And so we take once a year to celebrate.

The spectrum of celebration is a wide range, anything from gross inebriation to extravagant gifts and vacations on private islands. These blessed events, getting older but not always wiser, nearing death, feeling the desperate anxiety from a fear of running out of time. They are trivial in the greater scope, and have become nothing more than a clever excuse to buy greeting cards with witty punchlines. It makes me wonder about the origin of holidays in the first place. On birthdays you should have cake.




You should receive presents and people should sing. Personally, I enjoy cake on just about any occasion so it just makes me question why most celebrations neccesitate cake. It's delicious, but not expensive by any means, and it isn't hard to come by. You will never hear of anyone going out of their way to procure a yellow cake with vanilla frosting. This fact alone, in my opinion, is really counter-produtive to a "special occasion." A memorable experience. One night I want to turn to a friend and say "Hey, it's Thursday. Let's have some cake." Or maybe I'll say "Happy birthday, here's a can of sardines."



My birthday this year has come and gone. I feel as though after you surpass your teenage years, birthdays are just anti-climactic. Chances are you aren't having a Spiderman theme party, going bowling, or playing pin-the-tail-on-the donkey. Frankly, you're just getting old. Somehow we've managed to commericalize everything.

Don't get me wrong, I still believe in the hope that is offered by these mindless celebrations, a valid reason to overeat and drink too much hard liquor. You wake up on a Wednesday morning with a migraine and tell people "It was my birthday." It makes us human, real and flawed. Absolutely sub-par insane, it makes us normal for wanting to be belligerent throughout the 24-hour span of a birthday. The day when people call at 12:01am and feel special, like some bizarre pecking order where they are moving ahead for promptness. Let's skip the facade. It's another day, another year, another party with cake, feigned enjoyment and helium-filled balloons.

Birthdays. All for the love of wax candles and wrapping paper.



Happy Birthday!

I am Jack's Words of Wisdom...

**(If you don't know who Jack is, you really need to watch Fight Club)**

Today: Feeling angst, aggression, anxiety for no apparent reason. Maybe it's just Scorpiosity (I'm also in the mood for making up words):

"As the sign associated with sex, death and the Underworld, Scorpio is here to delve beneath the surface of life, discover what is hidden and bring to light what the other signs are too afraid to acknowledge. The ultimate purpose of all that intensity is healing and transformation at the deepest level."

This is what I watch when I feel the need to be inspired...

And/or I am extremely irritated with the world at large...

The following are collective words of wisdom from the greatest modern existentialist of all time (or at least my personal favorite), Chuck Palahniuk/Tyler Durden.

"WARNING: If you are reading this then this warning is for you. Every word you read of this useless fine print is another second off your life. Don't you have other things to do? Is your life so empty that you honestly can't think of a better way to spend these moments? Or are you so impressed with authority that you give respect and credence to all that claim it? Do you read everything you're supposed to read? Do you think every thing you're supposed to think? Buy what you're told to want? Get out of your apartment. Meet a member of the opposite sex. Stop the excessive shopping and masturbation. Quit your job. Start a fight. Prove you're alive. If you don't claim your humanity you will become a statistic. You have been warned. This is your life and it's ending one minute at a time. Man, I see all this potential, and I see squandering. God damn it, an entire generation pumping gas, waiting tables; slaves with white collars. Advertising has us chasing cars and clothes, working jobs we hate so we can buy shit we don't need. We're the middle children of history, man. No purpose or place. We have no Great War. No Great Depression. Our Great War's a spiritual war. Our Great Depression is our lives. We've all been raised on television to believe that one day we'd all be millionaires, and movie gods, and rock stars. But we won't. We are consumers. We're the bi-products of a lifestyle obsession. And we're slowly learning that fact. And we're very, very pissed off. You're not your job. You're not how much money you have in the bank. You're not the car you drive. You're not the contents of your wallet. You're not your fucking khakis. You're the all-singing, all-dancing crap of the world. Fuck off with your sofa units and lime green stripe patterns. Reject the basic assumptions of civilization, especially the importance of material possessions.I say never be complete. I say stop being perfect. I say let's evolve, let the chips fall where they may. First you have to give up. First you have to know; not fear, know, that someday you're gonna die. No fear. No distractions. The ability to let that which does not matter truly slide. Without pain, without sacrifice, we would have nothing. It's only after we've lost everything that we're free to do anything. Only after disaster can we be resurrected."

"My eyes are open."

"Sticking feathers up your butt does not make you a chicken."

"You wanna make an omelette, you gotta break some eggs."

"The liberator who destroyed my property has realigned my perception."

"Take some responsibility!"

**(Breathe in...Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaahh!!!!! Whew, much better.)**

So that's my problem!

I found an article on sibling birth order and how it affects adulthood and relationships. Being an impatient, shallow reader (that has in the past made my teachers so proud), I skipped directly to the section concerning me. (Me! Me! Me! Can you tell I'm the youngest kid?). The following summary is apparently what happens to the families' last born; a.k.a 'the baby,' a.k.a 'the brat/little monster,' a.k.a the one all the other children hate for at least the first five years.

Disclaimer: "Obviously, there's a danger when it comes to oversimplifying complex human beings into rigid classifications that may or may not apply. But it's also hard to disagree with the idea that the order in which a person is born into a family could impact how he or she relates to the world."

That's a great round-about way of saying 'If we're right then it must be true, and we are extremely intellectual, but if we're wrong, come on, you can't believe everything you read.'


"The Youngest Child

The youngest child is the one most likely to ask, "Why?" This ability to view issues from a critical perspective means they conform less and often come up with creative solutions to problems. One potential drawback is that they've often been cared for by so many people in their life that they can expect others to take responsibility for them. The youngest child is often more outgoing and social, and they'll usually take more risks, meaning that they may get to experience more diverse opportunities than their older siblings."

I interpret 'outgoing' to mean slightly overbearing, loud, and/or moderately insane; 'risks' to mean booze, sex and drugs; and 'diverse opportunities' to mean dozens of unrelated careers. But hey, somewhere in there they slipped in creativity, which in my book outweighs being crazy.

"What this means in a relationship, then, is that the youngest child offers all kinds of fun and excitement. Whether on a first date or in a serious relationship, you can count on a youngest child to find spontaneous, unexpected ways to amp up the excitement. This spontaneity can also lead to potential problems in a relationship, though, since it's not always accompanied by dependency and accountability. Also, those powerful social skills bring all kinds of rewards, but they may not always be used for good; youngest children need to be careful not to abuse those powers by manipulating to get what they want."

Hmmm. 'Spontaneous, unexpected ways to amp up the excitement.' That sounds like wild sex, fighting, or a beautifully orchestrated combination of the two. I would analyze further, but now it just seems irrelevant (please refer to previous statement).

Ah, thank you eloquent sibling observer, now it all makes sense. Not only am I an evil Scorpio, I'm an utterly aloof, irresponsible, untamed manipulator! Sweeeeeet, I should go into politics...or become a telemarketer. The world, she is mine!

Mwahahahahahahahahaaaaaa!!!!!!

Beware future victims (though I guess the politically correct term would be significant others), I may be fun and exciting, but I'm also dangerous. Like eating pop rocks and drinking soda, watching any movie starring Ashton Kutcher, or Camels (the cigarettes and the animal).

Hasta.