My birthday is this weekend.
I dread birthdays. Like, I really dread them. Every year, I get older, creeping towards death’s warm embrace, and all I can think about is what a sorry excuse of a human being I am. It’s the thing I was talking about last week — every year, on the tenth of December, I am absolutely flooded the fuck with ennui, wondering what I have to show for myself.
It’s a habit. The beating myself up about shit. I do it without thinking. I know I say this all the time, but it’s worth repeating, probably. (Also now, my automatic thought is you dumb so-and-so, why do you keep talking about the same shit, and it’s like PIPE DOWN, SELF.)
This is really extremely morbid to say, but as a kid I never really imagined my life as far as 35. It was beyond the scope of my imagination—you know that thing how when you’re like, eight, someone in their mid-30s is practically a senior citizen?—so I assumed I would simply stop existing. Or, maybe I would kick the bucket in some extremely glorious or extremely mundane way before I even got to 20. Mmhm, yes I did spend a lot of time hanging out in my own imagination. It’s why I’m so normal and well-adjusted.
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