Happy Birthday.

I'm twenty-three fucking years old and I'm sure half the people I've met in my life don't even know it.

I spent my birthday mopping floors and explaining to my fellow associates why I didn't bring them cupcakes on my birthday. They were excessively saddened by my lack of baked goodies for their bellies, and really, why wouldn't they be? The birthday girl always cooks for her guests!

Birthday's are shit. They've unfortunately become like every other mediocre occassion on the christian calanender and have assumed their position amoungst the other notorious Hallmark Holidays. Boo.
I don't like this, "as I get older I realise" scenario. It makes me feel funny and odd and completely out of sorts with my bubbling personality and fading youth. I have a wrinkle under my left eye. What I would give to be twenty.
But now, instead of opening gifts and being with family, birthday's are reduced to sitting on a blog and typing about the people you miss. Fate has granted me many mistakes, God has given me a big mouth - I own the stubborness and pride which ends many friendships. It seems that I'm rather good at making people fuck off.

I'm not particularly bothered or saddened by their departure because I can't note any sort of difference in my happiness or unhappiness, which makes me believe that their presence wasn't of any importance to my health or personality.
But of course, like everything, we all miss the things that we considered dear and near and I do from time to time wonder about the friends that I've left along the way.

I guess I should go back to mopping.