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.