06SEP1980

I had a really amazing and heartfelt piece of literature to impart to the world in this little corner of a big waste of time. Then Blogger ate it. I don't know where it went, I don't know why it seemed tasty. I do know that I can't for the life of me remember what I wrote.

Anyway, forgot it was my birthday yesterday until a friend left me a nice email message. I appreciated it greatly, even though I don't give two shits about birthdays. I thought birthdays were cool as a child, but I also thought Transformers and the gravel in the driveway was cool.

I might still think transformers are cool. Gravel might hold my interest sometimes. Gravel is so important. You blog people don't even know. Go on talking about iPods and clothing options. You know what you would have without gravel? Nothing. Take a look around you and count the concrete structures you need, both above ground and under. Concrete is a mixture of portland cement, sand, and gravel at a ratio of 1:2:3, usually. In other words, your grocery stores, theatres, highways, tunnels, and pretty much everything else you need if you don't live in a grass hut is mostly gravel.

Transformers are giant robots that turn into cars and trucks and shit. I stand on the solid base of my tastes in cool.

Now, birthdays are, much like almost all fornication in certain parts of Asia, a commodity. You have only so many possible, and the stock in the those birthdays is a function of the continuing formulae of supply and demand. While the number of available birthdays, like my own, is suspected to be great, such as when you are mid-twenties, or if you prefer the cold ten year rounding, late-twenties, they mean very little.

In other words, I find no reason for ribbons and streamers, or any foofiness whatsoever for a birthday that has no significant numerological value or dwindling forecast for future possibilities of another birthday.

A birthday for 1-10, sure. It only makes sense, as you haven't been alive long enough to flood the market with years in which to celebrate. 13 holds the distinction of being the first in our language of numbers to carry the suffix "teen," thus deserves noting. None of the following teens, save voting age in your locale, carry any weight. 21 holds some meaning in the US for no other reason than some fairly ridiculous legislation. After 21, there really is no reason to celebrate. You've had enough childish little shindigs and need no more.

Welcome to adulthood where no one cares how old you are unless you are targeted for procreation and people make fun of you for playing with Transformers. Your life is over. There is no reason to note any occurence, save marriage or the creating of a new set of birthdays in the form of progeny.

I will allow my minions to celebrate any birthday of mine after 100, but it will probably be more of an imperial holiday at that point, anyway.