It’s My Birthday and I’ll Want if I Want To

So my birthday came and went, and it was probably the shittiest one yet. I am brought again to why I don’t particularly try to celebrate the day.

Now on the whole I guess I’m luckier than most. I never had my parents outright say that I shouldn’t have been born like other people in the world. Still yet, something about being born on Pearl Harbor Day subconsciously puts it into people’s heads that I don’t deserve to have this day. Compound it with being close to Christmas, and one gets lucky to get a birthday card. Which, by the way, I didn’t get a single one this year.

Ignore the day and people get upset that you don’t want to deal with their bullshit. Try to acknowledge it, which I uncharacteristically tried to do this year, and you get the following.

  • Me, on Facebook: I would like a new dishwasher. I might just start walking up to random people on the street and say, “It’s my birthday. I want a new dishwasher.” Because I want a dishwasher.  This is my birthday wish. I am wishing for a dishwasher for my birthday.
  • Facebook: Why don’t you just go out and buy a used dishwasher?
  • Me: …yes I could try to save up the money to do that. A used dishwasher would make me happy. It doesn’t have to be new. But I want a dishwasher.

So then my birthday came and went. I didn’t get any notices on my Facebook from any of the people whose birthdays were not ignored by Yours Truly, save one. From my father, who also used that moment to explain that the doctor’s latest diagnoses was more dire than usual.  Happy Birthday, baby girl, by the way. I’m dying.

No dishwasher. Lots of heightened stress not even packaged with a bright bow, yes. But no dishwasher.

So I turned back to Facebook. I really don’t get out much.

  • Me: Okay, so I was going to ask for a new glass top for my stove (the current one is broken) for Christmas. But I’m going to ask for a dishwasher.
  • Facebook: What you SHOULD worry about is getting your stove fixed. Which, by the way, you can probably buy a used dishwasher from the Facebook market or Craigslist.
  • Me: … I need a dishwasher, see. I need help with the dishes. At least with the stove broken we can still bake and use the crockpot, but I work very hard and need help with the dishes. So dishwasher wins. I need a dishwasher.
  • Facebook: Guess you’ll be cooking a lot out of the crockpot then.
  • Me: I already do. I just need a dishwasher. (Me, thinking, why in the hell is it such a problem that I want this thing for Christmas??)

This is when the migraine hit – that thing I get once a month without fail. That thing I’ve been having to research and figure out on my own, like so many women have to do in America, because even a specialist had no clue.

  • Me, on Facebook: Well here comes the migraine. I’m going to be sick for days now. THIS is why I need a dishwasher.
  • Facebook: Sorry about the migraine… I get them too and they suck.
  • Me: Yeah. But the possible solution is $40 so I just gotta get ice and ride it out.
  • Facebook: Hey, we just remodeled our kitchen. I’ll see if I can get my parents to sell their old dishwasher to you.
  • Me: Okay, I guess that sounds reasonable. (Thinking, where am I going to get the money…??)
  • Facebook: No, really, just find a used dishwasher and buy it. They’re cheap.

At that point you finally lose your patience with the people’s pettiness, because seriously. When I stopped trying to celebrate my birthday people were upset. When I didn’t make any specific wishes or desires for birthdays past, people got offended. I make a damn wish and people are actually telling me what I should and should not want, and what my priorities should be.

  • Me, finally: Look. I nearly died in the summer THREE TIMES. Remember that? I was hospitalized and no one fucking cared? Do you know what else didn’t fucking care? The bills. The piled up, literally a foot high mountain of bills that – even though I send money when I have it – don’t care.
  • So I’m in this thing called financial ruin. We might have gotten past this if the other half hadn’t been fired from his job, but he was and the only thing he found pays dick. “Find a job and work no matter what they pay!” people say. This is because they haven’t had to be fat off of ramen noodles for the rest of their lives. They probably all were given welfare and an easier time of it, too.
  • This means I have no damn money. I only went to Starbase Indy this past year because things were paid for in advance and I was obligated. What happened there? I was pushed out of the venue I traveled all that way for and my autoharp was broken. Can I afford to fix it? No, no I can’t. Can I afford my damn medical expenses? No I can’t. And yes, fuckers, I have fucking insurance. As I was saying BEFORE Obamacare went into effect insurance doesn’t help people like me. In fact, where once upon a time I was GIVEN time to pay off things this time the bills aren’t even a year old and I’m being sued left and right.
  • So I don’t have fucking money for a fucking dishwasher, used or not.  If I *could* afford to fucking get a damn dishwasher, I’d fucking get one and then I’d ask for a fucking PONY for my birthday or some other shallow stupid thing. And all you fucks would nod your heads and approve of something so inane and worthless, but asking for an actual NEED in a way that doesn’t constitute begging on the street should be regulated by the thought police!

.. okay I might not have said all that. I might have condensed all of that into three polite sentences.

Thing is, I’m pretty sure people didn’t get the point.

It’s my damn birthday. It’s fucking Christmas. What the FUCK is the problem with asking for a damn dishwasher? I should ask for a Porsche instead? Fuck that. I don’t want a Porsche. I need a dishwasher. I need my car payment caught up. In other words, it doesn’t take a platinum mine to make me happy. I just want things taken care of so I can do what I love doing without being to stressed to even sleep. Which by the way, I am right now.

Fuck you assholes. It was my damn birthday and you fuckers get ridiculous no matter which way I choose to handle my existence. It isn’t like I expected you fucks to actually show up in my front yard with cake I couldn’t eat and a dishwasher wrapped in shiny paper. The least and most polite thing you fucks can do is respect that a wish is a wish, and someone’s birthday is just that.

Fuck you.