I’m sitting in Chin Lungs by myself and Krystal left a little while ago.
It’s my birthday.
My family wished me. Mum was the first one to wish me and will always be the first one until I’m not here anymore.
Dad was second and Joel wished me next. Krystal was the last.
I had one person with me that day but it still felt empty.
I stopped celebrating my birthday when I turned 14. If you asked me why, I wouldn’t know the answer.
Maybe it’s because I couldn’t see all of the perfectly good cake going to waste or it was maybe because I realised that I was privileged.
There’s no good thing that comes out of celebrating birthdays.
I’m also not one to walk around telling people when my birthday is so I get a few fake wishes and emotions on that one day.
I’d rather people not know my birthday and still be real and truthful with me.
I don’t care if one doesn’t wish me on my birthday. I genuinely couldn’t give a fuck.
If you can be good to me and kind to others, That’s all I care about.
So yes, now that I’m 22, I feel old.
