Moving right along with the investigation of my birthday gift from the Gawds, the
next thing that stood out was food. Junk Food!
That’s a fucking huge container of Cheese Balls. It filled up approximately 60%
of the space in The Ominous Black Birthday Gift Bag—maybe even more. I wasn’t very
scientific in calculating that 60% number, but it sounded more observant that 50%.
Plus, the word “approximately” is a multisyllabic Get Out Of Jail Free card for
being imprecise. I am certain that the Cheese Ball container fills up over half
the bag, though, so I’m sticking with 60%.
I’m not a birthday guy. When I was maybe 9 years old, birthdays were great! They
were like the warmup show for Christmas—where toys and cash rained from the heavens.
Now that I am a safe distance into my 30’s, birthdays merely mean that I somehow
survived another trip around our modest sized star. Those birthdays also seem to
come a lot faster now.
Time is indeed relative and, as a kid, it moved along at a snail’s pace. I wanted
to grow up so badly. My mom always used to say, “Enjoy being a kid. Adulthood sucks,
honey.” Well, maybe not in so many words, but that was the gist. And, wow, was she
right. Why are moms always so right? Responsibilities, careers, bills, mortgages,
deadlines, insurance, 401K’s, politics, taxes, doctors, gray hairs, nosehair plucking.
When I was a kid, I always wondered if having armpit hair would tickle. Well, it
doesn’t, but nosehairs do. The worst is when you can feel them wafting in the wind
with each breath. God, I want to make a sprint for the bathroom and pluck this thing.