Today is my birthday. It's also the day Virginia Woolf put rocks in her pockets and went wading in the River Ouse. Apropos.
I'm pretty sure I say that same thing every year. Unlike me, it just never gets old.
Guess you could say I'm not too much a birthday person. I'm fine with a quiet dinner at a restaurant - more than fine with cake - beyond that I get pissed off. I hate flowers, balloons and anything with bright primary or pastel colors. Or sweet smells. I can bring myself to accept cards, only insofar as they're Edward Gorey grim or terribly politically incorrect. If it offends no one, don't waste the stamp. If it offends several groups, extra bonus points.
All the good milestone birthdays have passed. From here on it's a matter of how good my corpse looks - though I'm being cremated - and how big a sigh of relief the family breathes once the paperwork's done.
After 40 it's all borrowed time. Downhill. A rush to the finish. Feel the need to celebrate that? Go right ahead, when I'm somewhere else.
My plan was to sit down and chat a bit about what I'm reading right now, or have read recently, only I really just want to read the rest of the evening so I'll do that next time.
It's my party. I can read if I want to.
