27 years ago some shit happened that I can't
undo right now. I was born. Born because a young and stupid couple fucked at the
Hilton.
The couple in question really ought to have read a few self-help books on raising children. That way I might have been a motivated and functional individual who doesn't wrestle daily with who the hell he is and what he is capable of.
Today a long absent urge to cry came to me at work.
I suppressed it.
I wanted to break down, finally. Not be angry, as I usually am at anything and everything, but to surrender.
I just don't know what to do with myself.
Birthdays, we tell ourselves, are a mere bagatelle after a certain age. To me, today's the yardstick of my inadvertent solitude. A few people have been kind enough to send me messages, which is nice. Nonetheless, I've shoo-ed away many people in exchange for my freedom to be me. Now I am ME, with a side order of NO ONE ELSE.
I just don't know what to do with myself.