The Most Important Day Of The Year


Today is my 24th birthday. If you haven’t given me flowers, designer cupcakes, alcohol, or sexual favors yet – it’s absolutely not fucking okay and I hate you not a big deal, I will continue to accept those all year round. But seriously though, I’m officially in my mid-twenties, yet I still need excessive validation for the day I spawned from my mother’s womb. Thanks Jules. Should I be embarrassed by this need? Or is it normal to want other people to be remotely pleased that I still exist? It’s gotta be normal right? Human, at the very least? I mean, your birthday is the one day of the year that you’re really allowed to be publicly narcissistic. (But let’s be real, I take a few liberties with that.) People are supposed to show their affection because – like I have said before – as a member of the trophy generation, I was raised to believe that I am individually extremely important and unique and amazing. Which I am. All of those things. I am. Hello.

Nowadays, there are few good excuses to forget my someone’s birthday – especially someone you actually give a shit about. Gracias El Facebook. Most of us are glued to technology and social media. It’s impossible to go anywhere without seeing at least a quarter of the room checking something on their mobile device of choice. Is it a little sad? Absolutely, but that’s the world we live in. Since Facebook tells you when it is your friends’ birthdays, that alone gives little reason for completely forgetting. On top of that, social media has created some confusion regarding birthday etiquette. What is acceptable depends on your relationship with the given individual, doesn’t it? In my personal opinion, the basic Facebook wish is appropriate for anyone. An actual friend? Comment isn’t mandatory as long as there is some other form of acknowledgement but maybe post a funny or embarrassing photo/vid/link to show the world exactly how much they’re you’re bestie. Nothing says exclusivity like a solid inside joke. A text is required. Prep a photo (or even a Diptic) to Instagram. Mention them in a Tweet. Phone call. B-Day plans. Get them a card. Go for the gift because YOLO. You do whatever it takes to show me them that you actually care because 1) you might and 2) they’ll probably reciprocate if they’re actually your bestie and that sort of reciprocity is undoubtably pleasant. I also intentionally avoid Facebook on my birthday because I’m obnoxiously popular all of the notifications would make my head explode.

 When I was a little girl of 8 or 9, I began having reoccuring nightmares involving people forgetting my birthday. Basically the plot of Sixteen Candles but instead of a fun 80’s rom-com it was a horrible rejection night terror that somehow became intertwined with the basic plot of It’s A Wonderful Life and me never existing in the first place. #EMOTIONALTRAUMA. I’m going to combine those subconscious experiences with my trophy gen upbringing as the basis for my cake day need for attention and entitlement. Thank you psychiatry. Thank you alprazolam prescription. So, like, I basically have an excuse for needing attention right? Right. Yes. Don’t question me. This is my blog. I’m the boss. It’s my birthday. Love me. Love me or gtfo!

… brb poppin’ a xanny …

What’s funny/weird is that I rarely freak out over the fact that I’m getting older with the exception of the legit breakdown I had when I turned 22 and graduated college within 2 weeks of each other because growing up is a trap. To be honest, I think I already started telling people I was 24 back in February because IDK I do weird things sometimes. 24 also isn’t one of those big freak out milestone birthdays – see where my mental/life/marital state is at when I’m turning 30 and then we’ll talk.

Thanks for the birthday hugs Owen Wilson xoxo

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