Birthdays and Monsters

Birthdays are strange, lumbering creatures. They come slowly, inexorably. You hear them dragging along, they do not sneak. No amount of preparation or planning keeps them at bay, each of us has our own version of the birthday monster. Mine always brings with it loneliness, and self-doubt. Two of my frequent visitors, yet I'm always convinced I can avoid them if I just try a different strategy. But here they come again, loneliness, a tall spindly fellow, all sharp edges and hollow in the middle, self-doubt trailing behind short and hunched as he shuffles along. No mouth, for he has no voice to speak for himself, his big sad eyes say all he could ever need to.
Some very quick character studies for said monsters:

Ok, that sounded way more depressing than it needed to. Really it's not that bad. I had lunch with my Grandma (Chinese food, while hardly thrilling, is aways delicious) and made some art. Nothing else that's finished, so no more pics.
And lots of people called or posted on my wall to say happy birthday. Interestingly, those people consist of my immediate family, and people I was either never close with or haven't spoken to in years (for the most part), while the people I see all the time have been strangely silent.
Matt Wise said to do a shot with someone in his name. Alas, I lack anyone to do shots with, in his name or otherwise, so that birthday wish will not get fulfilled.

Old and sketchy

The mirrors and the unacknowledged nods.
Dial tones and license plates.
The words you didn't choose.
Everything the day's too small to hold spills on to the dusk,
and shorts the evening's fuse.
So you fumble for a voice and sing "Happy Birthday."
Read it to yourself again.
The stories always end the same.
He can't stay and she won't run,
and fear is where they're calling from.
Staunch the blood from countless tiny cuts.
We're all out of bandages.
The heaters rattle taunt.
Sifting through translucent shards of glass,
looking for a filament that lit the life you want.
So you stumble for the phone, grasp the cord and pull.
Will your readership complain the stories always end the same?
She can't stay and he won't run, and fear is where they're calling from.
Afraid is where you're calling from.


Weakerthans- Uncorrected Proofs


Another birthday. 23 years old. Nothing exciting to report. Sore from snowboarding. Black diamonds? My 6th snowboarding experience? What was I thinking? Trying to quit my job, making art, distension about party plans. The usual. 
As Vainglory said "Nobody likes me when I'm 23".... I never wanna act my age. What's my age again? What's my age again? 

There is no way to avoid feeling shitty on Valentine's Day. Let's be honest, I could list 50 real reasons why I'm opposed to Valentine's day, and I do. But those are not the cause of my hatred. They are rationalizations, designed to hide this fundamental truth: Valentine's Day sucks. It makes me miserable. No amount of productivity, shitty romance movies and hagen das can even begin to compare with how bad this day makes me feel, even when I pretend it isn't happening. I hate Valentines Day, I hate being single, and I hate the fact that it comes right before my birthday so all the progress of months of telling myself that I'm awesome and everything will work itself out gets stomped on today, so when we get to my birthday there is no chance of me feeling anything but awful. Writing cards to my friends to tell them how much I love them and doing thumbnails for my stroke comic hasn't exactly helped either. This is one of those depressing posts I should just delete. It's only going to make me feel worse when no one responds. I wish I were the sort of girl who could just go out and pick up some random stranger for sex. At least then I'd be pathetic and getting laid, rather than just pathetic. Stupid standards. Stupid self respect. FML.
At least my teddy bear is good for cuddles. I need a hug.

Still nothing to say

I'm 22! My birthday was Monday. Unsurprisingly, I was stressed and tired and emo and ran out of family birthday dinner crying. That happy birthday shit is a giant lie. Like the cake. No actually, my birthday cake did turn out to be a lie. Twice. Long story.
I'm having a party on Saturday night, which I have no idea how many people are attending. Also, I must talk to my housemates about it.
Monkey madness continues, with at least 2 rehearsals a day this week. nothing I'm in is ready, and acts are due Sunday. Yeah.
Happily the Masquerave has been moved and will no loner be the same night as the fire show. Hallelujah.
My art is coming along. I finished the painting I was working on, it looks awesome, even if the pictures I took of it don't. I can't post them now, because I have to go to Women in Antiquity. I skipped Ballet this morning, tired and headachey and not wearing tights today. It just wasn't happening.