Tactical events of a magnanimous nature converge on a single day, joy untold and epic happiness radiate from every pore of my glowing joyous skin as I say “It’s my birthday” but alas that is the guy at the other table, surrounded by all the merry happy folk he actually enjoys spending time with.
This is not the image I project at this god forsaken hour of the night, I don’t even think I can raise a cheer! (laughing not crying, laughing not crying.. This shit works!) but apparently I have to endure the notification to all those around me that I’m a year older, a cake shoved in my face as I make my wish “Please lord just kill me this year”, I did warn readers not to be around sharp objects or cliffs right?
My life is still threatenly (haven’t used that word for about four posts) unstable and as yet no hope of resolving that grand piano hanging by the murderously thin thread, above my head… I’m a poet and my depression knows it!
I’m still single, yea, another year of failure in that respect with the added bonus I’m surrounded by marriages, kids and long term relationships, give me a moment, I need to find a sharp object and a cliff.
Sometime ago I found out my pub was changing management, and that the timescale put my cringingly spoken ‘birthday’ somewhere in the middle of the time line so that it works as a notable date, so I asked cheekily for macaroni cheese, made sure the roads were open and planned to hide out for an hour or so. The fact I’m working on my birthday and will have to put up with the merry folk relishing the annual ‘beat Bob with social obligation’ and ‘self regulated suicide watch’ that I have to run, yea fucking yea.
I shall remove the oddly comfortable noose from around my neck and look on the.. bris… brght sick… bright side, knew I’d remember what it was! and acknowledge the fact I’ll be blissfully drowning in cocaine cookies, they are that addictive, chocolates and pub grub.
Anyone want a study in the commonly defined irony, they can identify the curiously screwed up fact I was born in summer and prefer winter, at least the weather matches the pure glacier style front I paint a smile on and sell as the real me, and sorry folks but you don’t get such fluffily filtered images of bunnies etc that the rest of the world gets.
If I’m alive next year I promise to write an ever radiant portrayal of the all that reeks of non-depression, but whilst I run a warm bath and find a sharp knife I’ll fall deep into the aroma of unfeeling depression, let it numb the pain of another year that I could do without. As I seek salvation in the bottom of a blog I bid you a great weekend and all the overall positive reinforcements I can gloomily muster.
And yes this post requires anti-depressants and a severe amount of hugs to survive, barely, but it’s my birthday so enduring this can be your present to me… Next wealth of happy mirth, Christmas, at least I have a couple of months before reliving this hell.