Well, birthdays are merely symbolic of how another year has gone by and how little we've grown. No matter how desperate we are that someday a better self will emerge, with each flicker of the candles on the cake, we know it's not to be, that for the rest of our sad, wretched pathetic lives, this is who we are to the bitter end. Inevitably, irrevocably; happy birthday? No such thing.
July 26th is my birthday. The CIA was created on that day. Evita Peron died. Fidel Castro's July 26th Movement was named after that day. In short, that day is tied to crazy-ass people. I am no different, as my wife can vouch for my crazy-assness. Which brings us to the subject of this post.
I actually find nothing particularly important about my birthday. I do not really look forward to it, I have no interest in having a party thrown for me, and really it is just another day. Indeed, the only reason I look forward to it at all is because I got married on that day (well, legally we were married on the 25th but the Wedding was the 26th), and it gives me an opportunity to bring people together and to get my wife kick-ass presents (that I secretly want for myself). I dunno, I just realized that I do not feel any different on my birthday, and that realization just makes the day seem... abritrary and shallow. Other people's birthdays are a big deal to me, but my own? Meh. It might have to do with my birthday being in the summer, which traditionally meant that a lot of my friends from school could not attend, or the fact that a lego set will no longer fill me with joy, but I have everything I could want, and what do you get for the man that has everything?