Maybe what I dislike the most about birthdays is the possessive my. I don't remember making any effort to obtain my birthday. I think I'd be much more keen on celebrating those, of mine and of others, if we'd just called it a birthday. Example: 'Is it a birthday today?' someone would ask on your birthday day. 'Yes, it is. Let's celebrate a birthday,' you'd reply. A party would then ensue.
I can't even celebrate my birthday properly. I'm sure half-of-me was one of those spermatozoa that, distracted with trying to understand what the fuss was all about, just followed the crowd or, rather, was pushed out of the comfy ball by those eager, energetic brothers. And then, still distracted, half-of-me bumped its relatively enormous head against the ovule, who in turn found it amusing, said, 'You're cute. Come here,'' and snatched half-of-me inside, leaving all those other brothers out to wait and die, out to wait and die. That's how life begins.
