My birthday is in two-and-a-half hours. And the man who delivered me 27 years ago is dead. He died. And he's being buried tomorrow. ON MY BIRTHDAY. Seriously.
That has to be some sort of bad sign. Sure, he was 81 years old, but he died. And his funeral is TOMORROW. I am sort of sad for him. And me.
It's going to be my birthday, and my sister is sick. And let me just warn you that if my sister is sick and can't come spend my birthday with me, I will spend the entire night sobbing. I'm not even joking.
Three tears actually squeezed from my eyes today. Just three, literally. I held the rest in. I was at work. It was sort of like I peed my pants, because the tears just leaked out and I was ashamed. Tomorrow's my birthday and I'm alone and I want my mom and a hug and six margaritas.
I'm really not going to play the woe-is-me game all day tomorrow, but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't super sad to not have him on my birthday. Not that he deserves three minutes of my birthday. (I'm delicately balancing between really, really angry and really, really sad). But still. Two weeks ago we were fine. Just fine. I was actually making birthday plans for us.
Now he's probably sitting at home playing stupid, (bleeping) video games and trolling for skanks at the college bars BECAUSE I WASN'T GOOD ENOUGH.
Whoops. See? The anger. Give me a minute. I'll be sad in no time.
Yup, see? Sad. I was not good enough.
Enter the leaking tears.
So, moral of the story is: it's almost my birthday, the man who pulled me from the womb is dead, and that is somehow a metaphor for my soul. Or something.
Or I just need a really stiff drink.
And a hug.
Don't forget that.