What’s the point of a birthday again? 

Happy birthdays stopped being meaningful to me after my 17th birthday. I think because it just got harder and harder to decided on things. And I wasn’t as enthusiastic about it. I found it “silly” to celebrate life in a specific day because we should celebrate life all the time. At least, that’s what I told myself. Which is just a lie. Well, maybe? 

A birthday is someone’s special day. I think someone would be lying if they said it didn’t mean anything to them. Even just a little bit. I care about it because I want to be noticed. I want someone to go “hey, I wanted to let you know that this day is special to me too. Let’s celebrate.” Because we just want to have that beautiful high of affection. I’m not sure what I’m trying to say honestly. 

Birthdays are painful to me. I get attention and I get love and more then I could ask for. I get a few cards, $20 and a cake. Basic enough. They are painful to me because after my 16th birthday it went pretty bad. I felt as though my day of celebration turned to “why are you here again?” I know someone whom is in their 40 and still whines and cries as to why they don’t have the type of birthday they always wanted. 

God I’ll stop beating around the bush now. I felt like I was hated. I felt as though my birthday was  an after thought and everyone “forgot”. It was a mini war between my parents and I, and maybe it was an act of revenge but I won’t ever know. Going back to the laugh in the face comment, that’s exactly how I felt. 

Actually, I’m done ranting. I’ll call it on that.  

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