All my vanities aside, I feel like I get the right to be selfish and spoiled on my birthday. I wasn't even supposed to be born. I fell in that 1% that the birth control can't control. Not only was I not supposed to even be here, I gave my mom hell while she was carrying me with diabetes. Then to top it off, I was born early and I was sick. So sick that I made my grandfather cry because he thought there was no chance in hell I'd make it. I had see through eyelids, people. That's why there are no newborn pictures of me. No one wants to see that shit. That ain't normal or cute. Plus I never slept and apparently looked like Yoda. What. Even.
Yet here I am. I should live to celebrate my birthday. I should be excited that I made it to another year, with or without the threat of a family member telling me to stop whatever I'm doing if I want to make it to that next birthday (if I could have a dollar for every time I heard that....it'd all be gone by the next day. I suck at money. It's whatever). And I am. I just miss people other than myself making a big deal of it. I mean, yeah every year my mom and I have a few drinks and she tells me the same stories every year and how I scared the shit out of everyone because no one knew if I was going to be okay or not, but I'd at least like it if letting me pick out a restaurant wasn't like pulling teeth...mom.
So yay! Happy birthday to me! I'm happy to have not died! And yes, I wish I could get something to signify how lucky I am with a tattoo. Preferably while on NY Ink while crying my eyes out about how grateful I am and all that blah blah blah.
Pipe dreams, y'all. Pipe dreams.
