Birthday

A mostly unsuccessful middle-aged writer published an essay on the Internet entitled “Against the Celebration of Birthdays and Gift Giving Amongst Adults In General.” The next year, when his own birthday rolled around, no one mentioned it, no one gave him any gifts; he wondered whether anyone else in the world was even aware of his personal connection to the day’s date. Both his parents were dead, and his sister hadn’t remembered his birthday since she went to live at an ashram in India for six months in 1996. He thought about going to a bar and buying himself a special birthday drink. But he didn’t. He usually went to bars on Tuesday nights, and it was Thursday. And it was kind of cold out. So he stayed home. He was happier this way.

(Previously.)