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Hmmm. A mere few hours to go before another milestone is chalked off on life's epic, inexorable journey of unrelenting mental and physical decline. 'Happy Birthday' drawl the few who bother to notice, the implication being that ticking over another year is somehow an occasion worth marking with some degree of perfunctory merriment.
The mystical wonder of such things is forever lost somewhere down the heavy lines of an increasingly cynical brow. Should I feel the weight of my troubles lift, just for a day, and act in accordance with expectations; flirting with reckless impunity and joking at the world as though it existed solely for my personal amusement?
I'm too much the cynic, too much the embittered misanthrope to bow to such fatuous, witless buffoonery. The simple fact is that the best I can hope from tomorrow is a fleeting diversion from the pitiful reality of the featureless vista of my existence. There is no joy in the process of ageing. You see, life is like standing in the upper half of a giant egg timer. The sands of time drift listlessly into the bottom, never to be retrieved. The irreplenishable sands of the upper half drain ceaselessly away, heedless of any effort to stem the flow, leaving only emptiness in its wake.
So what exactly are we celebrating when we raise a glass to the passing of another step on the one-way journey we all involuntarily meander along? Congratulations, you have less life left to live? Or are we in actuality paying tribute to the fact that, against all odds, the last year wasn't so horrendously and inconceivably abhorrent that you gave up and put an end to it all?
Not much is it? But as they say, beggars can't be choosers, and I'd rather clutch at straws than hold a fistful of nothing. So here's to another year past that didn't quite defeat me entirely. Here's to another year to come set to challenge me to the core. Another year of anguish, abject misery and perpetual disappointment. Here's to having to balls to lie broken on the floor and wheeze 'come on you swine, why don't you kick me a little harder'.
Gripped as I so often am in an introspective reverie, I contemplate the extent to which my misery is self-inflicted. To what extent is the comfort offered by those around me a veiled indulgence in schadenfreude? Paranoia becomes me, and mistrust is now second nature. A self-destructive circle of introversion.
It goes without saying that my self-loathing requires exorcism. Immolate the old, and bear the new from a bed of ashes. I need an escape from myself. I've embarked on a journey of perfidy and hypocrisy in a mission to rid myself of the haunting image of my kindly and sickeningly good natured image. Quietly, I contemplate the multifarious, nefarious artifices that sit patiently behind the ever thinning false mask of decency.
Mark ye well, Mr. Nice Guy has left the building.
The mystical wonder of such things is forever lost somewhere down the heavy lines of an increasingly cynical brow. Should I feel the weight of my troubles lift, just for a day, and act in accordance with expectations; flirting with reckless impunity and joking at the world as though it existed solely for my personal amusement?
I'm too much the cynic, too much the embittered misanthrope to bow to such fatuous, witless buffoonery. The simple fact is that the best I can hope from tomorrow is a fleeting diversion from the pitiful reality of the featureless vista of my existence. There is no joy in the process of ageing. You see, life is like standing in the upper half of a giant egg timer. The sands of time drift listlessly into the bottom, never to be retrieved. The irreplenishable sands of the upper half drain ceaselessly away, heedless of any effort to stem the flow, leaving only emptiness in its wake.
So what exactly are we celebrating when we raise a glass to the passing of another step on the one-way journey we all involuntarily meander along? Congratulations, you have less life left to live? Or are we in actuality paying tribute to the fact that, against all odds, the last year wasn't so horrendously and inconceivably abhorrent that you gave up and put an end to it all?
Not much is it? But as they say, beggars can't be choosers, and I'd rather clutch at straws than hold a fistful of nothing. So here's to another year past that didn't quite defeat me entirely. Here's to another year to come set to challenge me to the core. Another year of anguish, abject misery and perpetual disappointment. Here's to having to balls to lie broken on the floor and wheeze 'come on you swine, why don't you kick me a little harder'.
Gripped as I so often am in an introspective reverie, I contemplate the extent to which my misery is self-inflicted. To what extent is the comfort offered by those around me a veiled indulgence in schadenfreude? Paranoia becomes me, and mistrust is now second nature. A self-destructive circle of introversion.
It goes without saying that my self-loathing requires exorcism. Immolate the old, and bear the new from a bed of ashes. I need an escape from myself. I've embarked on a journey of perfidy and hypocrisy in a mission to rid myself of the haunting image of my kindly and sickeningly good natured image. Quietly, I contemplate the multifarious, nefarious artifices that sit patiently behind the ever thinning false mask of decency.
Mark ye well, Mr. Nice Guy has left the building.
Hope you have a good birthday, save me some cake!
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Hmmm. A mere few hours to go before another milestone is chalked off on life's epic, inexorable journey of unrelenting mental and physical decline. 'Happy Birthday' drawl the few who bother to notice, the implication being that ticking over another year is somehow an occasion worth marking with some degree of perfunctory merriment.
The mystical wonder of such things is forever lost somewhere down the heavy lines of an increasingly cynical brow. Should I feel the weight of my troubles lift, just for a day, and act in accordance with expectations; flirting with reckless impunity and joking at the world as though it existed solely for my personal amusement?
I'm too much the cynic, too much the embittered misanthrope to bow to such fatuous, witless buffoonery. The simple fact is that the best I can hope from tomorrow is a fleeting diversion from the pitiful reality of the featureless vista of my existence. There is no joy in the process of ageing. You see, life is like standing in the upper half of a giant egg timer. The sands of time drift listlessly into the bottom, never to be retrieved. The irreplenishable sands of the upper half drain ceaselessly away, heedless of any effort to stem the flow, leaving only emptiness in its wake.
So what exactly are we celebrating when we raise a glass to the passing of another step on the one-way journey we all involuntarily meander along? Congratulations, you have less life left to live? Or are we in actuality paying tribute to the fact that, against all odds, the last year wasn't so horrendously and inconceivably abhorrent that you gave up and put an end to it all?
Not much is it? But as they say, beggars can't be choosers, and I'd rather clutch at straws than hold a fistful of nothing. So here's to another year past that didn't quite defeat me entirely. Here's to another year to come set to challenge me to the core. Another year of anguish, abject misery and perpetual disappointment. Here's to having to balls to lie broken on the floor and wheeze 'come on you swine, why don't you kick me a little harder'.
Gripped as I so often am in an introspective reverie, I contemplate the extent to which my misery is self-inflicted. To what extent is the comfort offered by those around me a veiled indulgence in schadenfreude? Paranoia becomes me, and mistrust is now second nature. A self-destructive circle of introversion.
It goes without saying that my self-loathing requires exorcism. Immolate the old, and bear the new from a bed of ashes. I need an escape from myself. I've embarked on a journey of perfidy and hypocrisy in a mission to rid myself of the haunting image of my kindly and sickeningly good natured image. Quietly, I contemplate the multifarious, nefarious artifices that sit patiently behind the ever thinning false mask of decency.
Mark ye well, Mr. Nice Guy has left the building.
The mystical wonder of such things is forever lost somewhere down the heavy lines of an increasingly cynical brow. Should I feel the weight of my troubles lift, just for a day, and act in accordance with expectations; flirting with reckless impunity and joking at the world as though it existed solely for my personal amusement?
I'm too much the cynic, too much the embittered misanthrope to bow to such fatuous, witless buffoonery. The simple fact is that the best I can hope from tomorrow is a fleeting diversion from the pitiful reality of the featureless vista of my existence. There is no joy in the process of ageing. You see, life is like standing in the upper half of a giant egg timer. The sands of time drift listlessly into the bottom, never to be retrieved. The irreplenishable sands of the upper half drain ceaselessly away, heedless of any effort to stem the flow, leaving only emptiness in its wake.
So what exactly are we celebrating when we raise a glass to the passing of another step on the one-way journey we all involuntarily meander along? Congratulations, you have less life left to live? Or are we in actuality paying tribute to the fact that, against all odds, the last year wasn't so horrendously and inconceivably abhorrent that you gave up and put an end to it all?
Not much is it? But as they say, beggars can't be choosers, and I'd rather clutch at straws than hold a fistful of nothing. So here's to another year past that didn't quite defeat me entirely. Here's to another year to come set to challenge me to the core. Another year of anguish, abject misery and perpetual disappointment. Here's to having to balls to lie broken on the floor and wheeze 'come on you swine, why don't you kick me a little harder'.
Gripped as I so often am in an introspective reverie, I contemplate the extent to which my misery is self-inflicted. To what extent is the comfort offered by those around me a veiled indulgence in schadenfreude? Paranoia becomes me, and mistrust is now second nature. A self-destructive circle of introversion.
It goes without saying that my self-loathing requires exorcism. Immolate the old, and bear the new from a bed of ashes. I need an escape from myself. I've embarked on a journey of perfidy and hypocrisy in a mission to rid myself of the haunting image of my kindly and sickeningly good natured image. Quietly, I contemplate the multifarious, nefarious artifices that sit patiently behind the ever thinning false mask of decency.
Mark ye well, Mr. Nice Guy has left the building.