Tomorrow’s my birthday. It’s the day I can add another tick to my age, when filling out forms. It’s the day I get to put on false cheer and empty, forced smiles onto my face as I face the reality that yet another year of my life has just been wasted away. My levels of interest in things have waned as I grow increasingly apathetic, with my family not knowing what to even get me (not that the monetary value really matters). More birthday cards with “better luck next year” and “thing will get better” and other pithy sayings that end up discouraging me more than anything else.
For the past several years, I’ve never looked forward to my birthdays. Feelings of dread, of ineptitude, of just-barely failed expectations (it can be definitely worse than failing by a large margin), of monumental mishaps, and generally loss of enthusiasm. What will I set out to do this coming year, and how will I completely fail to attain it?
Long ago, I vowed I’d become more than just a normal layperson; a successful doctor, an established lawyer, and modest businessman, whatever. I’d do something that’d leave an impact on the world, for the better of it.
And yet, I’m not even close to being a overworked officer worker or a disgruntled McDonald’s employee. I’m a sad, pitiful, unemployed layabout. Funny how things work out.
