It's My Birthday And I'll Bitch If I Want To

Yeah yeah it's my birthday.

And it's supposed to be all sunshine lollipops and fucking rainbows but all I want to do is hit someone.

Because my birthday is the one that gets overlooked. Forgotten, thrown on the shelf.

It doesn't help that school's just gone back. Or that Tiger's birthday is in ten days and I still haven't organised anything. Or that I have a trip to Hicksville to be planned for.

Or that WonderMan has changed jobs again. I sometimes wonder if he will ever stick to a job for more than five minutes. It makes it very hard to build a life when you are constantly panicking about whether his shitty mood when he came home is going to translate to another job hunt. 

The change of job and pay dates means I'm put behind in my bills again because I can't magic money out of nowhere. I'm so sick of trying. Between him and his old stupid arsehole boss, they've put us right back where I was when I started this blog. Fucking broke and fucking depressed.

A year on and I get up in the morning wondering why I'm still doing this. 

And again my birthday comes and goes with barely a mention. In fact, if I hadn't mentioned it, no one would even have noticed. Not even my nearest and dearest, and all they could manage was a lousy text message. 

Tiger would have remembered. She's good like that. But given the fact that she has absolutely zero money and zero opportunity, the best she can manage is convincing Frog to sit still and squiggle some pictures on a homemade card. Which I love so very very very very much, they made me want to cry and laugh and kiss them a million times over.

And yes, the love of my children should be all I want but it's not dammit.

I want a birthday like other people.

One where I am treated like gold, and spoiled, and fussed over. Not a text saying "Hey sweety I hope your day is great" which is the same as I get Every. Fucking. Day. 

I want a present. One I have not asked for, saved for or bought myself in the throes of the depression caused by "Sorry sweety, I promise I'll get you something good later."

Why am I not worth spoiling? Why am I not worth more than a stupid card grabbed off a shelf, that, despite all it's cheap nasty appearances, is supposed to somehow make me all smushy inside. And I suspect was supposed to get me to put out on my own birthday as well.

Fuck you.

I want us NOT to be broke on my birthday. 

I want someone to go without for months and fucking months to buy me something awesome. Like I do for all of them.

I want someone to care enough to actually show it.

Stop talking about it. All your talk is hurting me, stabbing my heart because I know it's not the truth. That it will never ever be anything but words.

Happy fucking birthday to me.