Haute Like Couture

Playing a little game of cat and mouse

at 100 mph on the 101 with a brand spankin new R8 is so LA

Birthdays

I’m not particularly fond of them. Well, my own at least. I don’t like people to know, I certainly don’t tell anybody. And if people forget, I get to gloat - to myself at least. This stems for as long as I can remember. When I was younger I liked presents [and cake] but I hated the giant birthday parties my parents would throw for me. I hated the stupid pinata my mom would make me bash with that special stick she spent hours decorating. I hated all my “friends” running around collecting candy. And most of all I hated opening presents infront of people. If it were up to me I’d take them all to my room and sit there in the dark, stare at them for a while. Maybe poke a couple. But leave them wrapped for another day that wasn’t the day of my birth. That’s what we’re supposed to be celebrating after all, right? That I exist. That I walk and talk and make my snarky comments and roll my eyes and throw fits and am seemingly undeserving of every good thing that’s come my way.

I stopped having any desire to celebrate this day [yes, today the 6th of November] a very long time ago. The year my father died. It was my eleventh birthday that year. Eleven is supposed to be synonymous with first crushes and boy bands, Lipsmackers chapstick in every flavor and Hard Candy nail polish with those stupid little plastic rings that I thought were SO cool. Instead, my birthday that year was synonymous with everything I would never get to have again; running to the garage to meet my dad when he came home from work to be swept up into his arms, weekend trips to Santa Barbara together, helping him make Saturday morning breakfast for the rest of my family. Gone. Vanished. Never again. And so, I spent my birthday that year in my room in the dark. Vowing to never ever take my, nor anybody else’s existance for granted again. So, it becomes particularly ironic that I wouldn’t want to celebrate the day that I, you, my family came into existance. Or does it?

And here it goes: I exist everyday. You exist everyday. My nearest and dearest exist everyday. I have zero desire to glorify one day when there are 364 that we survive together day in and day out. 364 other days we push through.

Some days seem impossible. Others like the happiest of my life. And then there’s my birthday: just another day like yesterday, like tomorrow.

Grey's Anatomy REALLY stresses me out. Grinding my teeth, nervous foot tapping stress.

It's not ironic at all. If I didn't follow them how else, then, would I know of their latest heinosity??