I keep in mind a lot of people’s birthdays: My parents, my siblings, my kids, my close friends, some more distant relatives, and
“-” ‘s. I can’t help it.
Yes, it’s his birthday. He’s 50-fucking-5. His wife is 38 or 39. As you can see, I find myself VERY BUSY actively, exhaustingly, not-caring-at-all about his birthday.
It doesn’t bother me, and has not been bothering me, since about 4 am. Four am YESTERDAY, that is. I’m such an obsessed, unforgiving bitch, that I’d like to make it up to the Universe, by stating that for his birthday, I wish that:
His kids forget;
His wife gets the wrong kind of pie and the wrong gift;
He has an annoying phone call with his mother;
He has an accident on his commute; and
Oops! Wait, that took a horrible turn. But, I seem to be unable to turn it around, so Karma will have to have her way with me. Maybe for next year I can work up to not wishing him dead, just the accident on the commute thing, and the things above that. It’s good to have goals.