When I was younger, I cared. Like, I totally thought if I didn't have a good birthday, I would have a bad year. It took me a long time to figure out that this isn't true—your birthday is just a day, like any other, and though you should spend it doing whatever you want, you shouldn't freak out if it goes badly. Because basically, my birthdays have pretty much always sucked…mostly because I cared SO much about having a good birthday–since I was convinced that that ONE day set the tone for the whole year—of course I always had a bad one.
Those of you with summer birthdays know the heartache of planning a party and having no one show up because they're all at camp or on vacation with their families. Well, pity those with winter birthdays, I usually had a cold or bronchitis myself—once I even had tonsillitis—on my birthday.
And when I wasn't sick on my birthday, my mom would plan a party, but something would always end up ruining it. Like someone (usually me) would throw up from all the excitement. Or instead of the LIVE miniature poodle I wanted, I'd get a stuffed one, and have to spend the whole party trying not to cry (and sit there saying to myself, “Why wasn't I more specific? LIVE poodle. Should have said I wanted a LIVE poodle!”
And because we weren't the wealthiest family, instead of the store-bought Barbie clothes I always wanted, I'd end up getting Barbie clothes my mom made. Now, of course, I realize these clothes were prettier and more tasteful than the store bought ones…but back then, I wasn't interested in making Barbie look classy. I wanted to make her look like a slut. So that was a crushing blow.
The worst was when I turned ten. My mom threw a Freaky Friday party for me, and everyone had to come dressed in their mother's clothes. Which you have to admit, is pretty funny.
But the meanest, most popular girl in my class, laughed at all the rest of us in our dress up clothes (her mother apparently didn't own any sun hats or funny gloves) and said we looked like a bunch of babies. This kind of ruined the festive mood.
I don't remember too many birthdays after this. I think I started blocking them out. I vaguely remember my 16th birthday, but only because there's photographic evidence that my then boyfriend came to my house and gave me a CD of my favorite band at the time. That was a good birthday…right up until the moment he announced that he was moving.
I guess just breaking up with me wasn't going to put enough distance between us. Yeah, that was a memorable one.
I remember my 17th birthday because my mom threw me a surprise birthday party as a joke, and all my friends came, and it was a blast, and I was convinced 17 was going to be a great year—so of course everything else that year went wrong. Like, I found out my new boyfriend was cheating on me with my arch enemy, and so I had to break up with him, and there was no one left at my high school who was even remotely cute that I could rebound with. So after that, I gave up on birthdays. Good thing, too

So Happy birthday to me!