Tuesday, May 5, 2015
Unlike previous years when I said acknowledging my birthday was disingenuous because I'd wished I'd never been born, I didn't feel that way this time. This year I felt more like, hey, I made it through another one and no one is more surprised about that than me.
Sometimes I wonder if the people who know me are actually taking bets and gambling on the likelihood/inevitability of my quitting life. I suspect they are. I wonder who has the closest date in the pool. Who will win? will it be you? How much have you bet? You can tell me.
I can tell you it won't be this year. I have three things I need to do in 2015, not the least of which is divest myself of at least 50 percent of the physical possessions in my home. That task is going to take some time and real thought. I would never intentionally leave Frank with all of the clutter that has accumulated because of me. This situation must be undone. Yard sale, donations, gifts, giveaways. Despite the sheer volume, there is essentially no trash or actual junk among so much stuff.
Anyway, I made it to my birthday. Nobody cared. Nobody, not one person, thought to say, I'm glad you were born and I'm glad you're still here. My world is better with you in it.
The truth is, despite my best efforts, I've not been able to make myself have any value in this world. As a worker I have and as a helper, but not as a person. Maybe in my next life I'll get that right.
Happy birthday to me, though. I stuck it out another year and probably made at least one person lose a bet.