Birthdays are a funny thing. Once a year, those of us who celebrate our birthdays throw a party to mark the passing of another year of our lives.
We bask in the knowledge that it is our special day, without ever thinking of exactly what we’re celebrating, or who it might affect.
Essentially, the birthday is a celebration of not having died for a period of one year. Some people seem to feel that this is a praiseworthy feat, and that they are entitled to all the customary congratulations and gifts that accompany the average birthday celebration.
I, on the other hand, find it strange to be rewarded with gifts every year for having gone 365 days in a row without having been lethally struck by a minivan or city bus.
Don’t get me wrong, I’ll still take the presents – I just don’t really get it.
There are a few ways in particular that people seem to like to spend their birthdays that really confuse me.
One is by going out to an American-chain-style restaurant where the serving staff sings an unenthusiastic corporate birthday song.
If I needed revenge on a friend badly enough to take him to one of those restaurants for his birthday, I would probably just stab him, as this would be a lot easier on both of us.
Another strange way to spend a birthday (which happens to be my personal favourite) is to spend the night with friends getting blackout drunk by drinking anything anyone puts in front of them.
In this scenario, the celebration is not for the person celebrating their birthday, but rather for his or her friends. It’s the one night per year they can almost kill their friend with alcohol and not feel responsible.
The person whose birthday it is usually ends up covered in vomit and a thin layer of bad decisions in the morning; a great way to start another year of life.
One thing many people don’t consider is how birthday celebrations affect their moms.
Think about it. When you celebrate your birthday, you’re essentially taking one of the most painful experiences in your mom’s life, and rubbing that memory in her face one day a year, with balloons.
Basically, you are saying: “Hey Mom, remember what I did to your vagina when I was zero? Have some cake!”
If you really care about your mom, you might think of changing what you choose to celebrate.
Maybe instead of birthday celebrations, we could have conception day celebrations. You could still have a yearly party, but instead of giving your mom excruciating flashbacks, it would remind her of something pleasant.
Granted, that would mean that every year your party would remind you of your dad pumping away, penetrating and impregnating your mom as both of them are covered in sweat in the backseat of the car they had while you were growing up.
Maybe we should stick to birthdays.
Next up for J. is giving the “Happy Birthday” song the Williamez treatment.