Birthday

It’s your birthday, the moment to celebrate you’ve clawed out of your mother’s womb with her help and survived on rations for nine months. You deserve to be wished more fortune, be given gifts repeatedly for that simple reason of living, you know, not dying. Later none will celebrate year after year as you’ll turn into a faded memory, a bucket of the best selection of what the others want to remember about you and your place in the world, while you’ve occupied it. So rejoice it’s your birthday and will be until your deathday.