2 Years Young

dangoebel:

Here you have it friends.. the song I promised to put up for you.  Can’t wait to hear what this song blossoms into after production.  I am very excited to share this with you.  Let me know what you think.  If I get enough support leading up to the release of the album, I may just have to leak it.  I really do appreciate all the support.  Hope you enjoy it!

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I mentioned last week that I had a certain apprehension toward potluck meals that prevented me from fully embracing office celebrations and I want to assure you all that this is not an irrational fear of germs, but instead a well-reasoned aversion to the unregulated business of at-home food preparation.

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So I turned 2 years old, awesome. All day everyone has been telling me happy birthday.

“Happy birthday baby! Enjoy your special day.”, they all tell me.

Now,granted this is only the second time I’ve had a birthday and if I’m honest the first time I was so plastered I tried to make out with tickle me Elmo (and now he won’t stop calling), but what exactly is there to celebrate?

At work, everybody brought in breakfast food (undoubtedly from their house full of ferrets) and we had a potluck for breakfast. Now my rant on office potlucks is better saved for another time, but let’s just say that if I suspect that your 9 cats might be tongue-bathing you before bed every night, negating your perceived need to shower, I’m probably not too keen on sampling the ambrosia you brought in that dish shaped like Elvis.

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I don’t mean to sound ungrateful and trust me, I love cake, but I don’t get why I should be rewarded. I mean, I didn’t get to pick the day I was born, and my parents didn’t really have much of a say, so why does everyone talk to me like I accomplished something?

There are 6.7 billion people on the planet, and each one of them was presumably birthed at some point. Simple math dictates that every day around 17 million people have a birthday. That is  a lot of people… pretty much the size of Portugal! Imagine that there was a day where everybody in the world had to call every Portuguese citizen and tell them congratulations on being from Portugal, and not in a “yay Portugal is great” kind of way, but in a “I want to specifically congratulate you for your accomplishment of being born on the soil of the great nation of Portugal.” And if you forgot to call a Portuguese person, or send them a message on Facebook, they had the right to be pissed at you, because you forgot their Portugal day.

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Oh, also everybody gets a cake. Not everybody gets to eat cake, everybody gets a whole fucking cake, whatever kind they like. Bakeries would be SLAMMED on Portugal day, and all of the Portuguese bakers would be pissed because they had to work on their Portugal day, but it would be OK, because the Portuguese deserve it.

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I guess what I’m trying to say is that birthdays are ridiculous, and yet we enjoy them because its all a little masturbatory. You want to buy somebody that new Ke$ha album they want because you know when your turn rolls around they will owe it to you to get you that CD shredder you’ve had your eye on ever since you heard that album the sixteenth goddamn time.

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I am by no means opposed to birthdays, hell I love the two I got. I like knowing that the people who love me want to say “I’m glad you were born”. I get that. What I don’t get is this obligation a lot of us feel to celebrate birthdays with our acquaintances, let’s stop doing that. And you know what, I don’t even have a problem with the social network greetings, they are offhand and easy and a nice way to say “i wish I knew you in real life, because I’m pretty sure you might not be a toddler, but if so then that’s even better”. Its the in between, the people you sort of know in real life that make birthdays awkward.

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New rule: If you don’t know my twitter handle, then you have no obligation to acknowledge my birthday. If you know ONLY my twitter handle, then I will welcome your well-wishings, but your gesture will be seen as friendly and no score will be kept as to who remembered what.

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I guess what I’m trying to say is that i wish my co-workers would stop making me eat their 10 bean salad.

Well it’s happening folks, in 6 days, I will officially be 2 years old. The big 2.0 .

This milestone has forced me to face my own mortality. Before long, I won’t be able to pass off pissing myself at the office as cute and I fear it will be many more years before I’m allowed to interact with a female breast. Even now, I can see that my pacifier has one foot in the grave and that people are now hesitant to put me in a baby bjorn no matter how much I cry.

Pictured: the sexyist thing you’ve ever seen, and some chick in a tracksuit.

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