My birthday has gone by shittingly.
Too shitty to be a fairy tale.
Too real to be a lie.
Too full of feeling to be a dream.
(And I can feel in my dreams, so to be too full is quite an extreme.)

Only one girl has ever professed to hating me. Not in the normal way of saying so, but with her actions. We used to be friends, so I try my best to just stay out of her way. I don't want to stir that much hatred inside of her. My friends tell me to stop caring, that I don't owe her any more respect than the respect that she pays me.

On my birthday I wish I didn't care. I wish I had better luck, but I don't. So I eat my birthday lunch alone and of all the people I know, I see her there. I wish it didn't hurt, but my birthday is just as shitty as the next day.

So I blare Jack's Mannequin in my headphones and try to take his advice to heart. He survived cancer, he has to have good advice. I ride the bus home and absorb his words and compose this post. I wonder how much longer I'll have two posts for one day. I wonder if they'll equal out the silence that will blare for months.

And I'll be damned if I am going out
I will not go out that way!