i hate birthdays.

mainly because ever since "birthday" came to mean some kind of orchestrated celebration with peers your age it seems there have been little things worth celebrating.

such is the optimism of a 24-year-old turning 40-year-old.

and i certainly do not mean this is the wonderful, i'm-so-mature-wizen-and-put-together kind of way. i mean this in the world-weary-fuck-shit-why-is-it-so-hard-NOT-to-have-the-fucking-responsibilities-of-a-fucking-grown-up kind of way.

that said, i guess this rant sends me sliding down the maturity ladder onto the rung of childish brat complaining about shit.