Happy Fucking Birthday

The first thing I did this morning was roll over to you and fill the gaps between your limbs with mine. You always feel so good, The rush of oxytocin was agitating, and I had to pull you closer for relief, but I couldn’t get close enough. With my cheek against your chest and my arm wrapped around your furthest shoulder, I had no choice but to be in love until someone moved.

Then you checked your phone. Moment of truth, did the money come through? “I’ve got you, no matter what,” I say. Last night you said it would make your year to hear someone say that. Sure, it meant our plans would be a little different, but we could keep most of them. Beats the laying in bed you’re doing now.

No money. Cue violent explosion, with self-directed face punching and phone breaking in the mix. What the fuck, dude?

So people aren’t around anymore for your birthday. My mother hasn’t told me happy birthday since before she moved to PA. Probably five years, and for one of them I lived with her. Nor has my brother or sister, and all of them actively, not passively, try to destroy my life. “At least they’re paying attention to you,” you said once in your defense. Yes. The people who are supposed to love me unconditionally are not merely apathetic about me, which would be great, they hate me so much they’ll go to war to see me burn.

Look at yourself, man. This is what you want to be? You want their absence to reduce you to nothing? Then they were everything good about you.

And maybe that’s the case. Maybe your shitty family with their shitty morals and their shitty opinions comprise all your good parts.

But if you don’t, if you stay here and continue to live this fruitless life and barely keep your head above water, then stop being so goddamned miserable about it.

Happy Fucking Birthday, Brian. You’re a fucking asshole and I’m going to Goodwill without you. I’ll bring you back some whiskey so you can drink yourself stupid and keep laying in that self-pitying heap all fucking day. Cheers.