I surely do this only out of jest, as it's my long-term agenda to become immortal (with eternal youth; I don't plan on going Skeletor on your great, great, great grandkids). Like it or not, my twenties are now making their way around the checkpoint, and I find myself missing the nineties a little more every day. Regardless, my gallant march through life thus far has made me the infinitely handsome, remotely misunderstood, extremely swell soon-to-be-your-Lord-and-Benefactor kind of guy I am today.
The most blatant progression that denotes the passing years is by far the ceremonial birthday cake. A ritual such as this is so based on stats and numbers it makes your 37-year-old uncle who plays D&D in his mom's basement cream his pants. It looks to be a simple formula; each time you receive a birthday cake, an additional candle is added. You are fooled by this for the first several years of your life. There comes a point when years increase but candles rapidly decrease and fluctuate. Results may very, but often the numbers are quite sporadic. I blame the advent of the oversized number-shaped candles, or the cost of those god-damned trick candles that can't be blown out without a nice thick loogie.
This year, my family presented a four-candled birthday cake to me, using recycled candles more than a decade old. I know this, because they were shaped like Ninja Turtles. Instead of declaring "Happy Birthday," like most birthday cakes, it proudly dodged responsibility and mentioned "Happy Cake." Obviously cakes understand that birthdays are a sensitive subject to the ancient. I feel it necessary to submit that this cake contained no cake or frosting, and instead consisted of a box of Oreo cookies, cream cheese, and some chocolate chips.
My parents, in an effort to not agitate the thread that tethers me between youth and a mid-life crises felt it necessary to point out my waning pre-thirties existence. They tossed me a card with a Chicken playing an accordion, which is quite suitable, and to show that they are fancy, it was the type of card with the tiny battery and circuitry that plays music when you open it. Mine, however, was broken, repeating half of the first note of the Chicken Dance over and over, as if the card itself was dumping it's memory and displaying a blue-screen stop error.
Like most major holidays, my birthday is substantially watered down in the United States. Certainly, used car lots offer no-money down to celebrate, and somewhere, a radio ad is trying to sell you a watch to give your girlfriend on this wonderful day, but that's about as far as it goes. In Canada, my birthday is celebrated by sculpting urinal cakes into the shape of Long Island, and then deposit them in Toronto subways. Claymation made-for-tv movies often sing songs about how Canadian urine would solve the guido infestation AND bring joy to children all throughout the world. Mexicans (in Mexico, you silly racist) celebrate by dropping children into a well along with boxes of saltine crackers to the tune of Material Girl. In Ireland, potatoes and beer are consumed to celebrate my glorious existence. This has become so popular that it's slivered it's way into daily Irish culture. In Russia, all female tennis players get together to sing the Pokemon theme while bears dressed in large foam costumes in my image wrestle midgets disguised as frat guys. Most large cities in Germany hold massive-scale LAN parties, lasting up to two full weeks. More Monster Energy drinks are consumed on this event than any given month of the year. In Denmark, old people are sent out to sea on tiny, leaky boats, never to be seen again, to appease the glorious powers that be who smiled down to grant them the blessing that is me.
I suppose now that my larval stage is cycles behind me, I should share my worldly experience with those who care to better themselves before it happens to them. Unfortunately, as far as life experiences go, I've fallen just short of most grand accomplishments. I've lived and thrived, but it should be mentioned that I've performed this in upstate New York, where it's really more of an insult to things that are living and thriving elsewhere to consider it a accomplishment. Really, the unlocked achievement here is that I'm not inbred, and I never turned into a "bro." I'll drink to that. Pitifully enough, I'm now twenty-six years old, seemingly dedicated and hard working, but I've never gone all the way with my Gnome Mage in Azeroth. Not even sixty. When I go to sleep at night, I can hear people laugh. I've never watched an entire season of Battlestar Galactica, I've never seen a funny Dane Cook comedy act, and I've never owned a Cher album, neither legal or otherwise. I can't bleed Tang, I certainly don't know how to speak Klingon enough to get me out of a bar fight, and I can't quite beat the 11.5 parsec record for the Kessel Run. Things will get better, I'm sure.
Here's to another twenty-six years of bringing you the awesome.
This year, my family presented a four-candled birthday cake to me, using recycled candles more than a decade old. I know this, because they were shaped like Ninja Turtles. Instead of declaring "Happy Birthday," like most birthday cakes, it proudly dodged responsibility and mentioned "Happy Cake." Obviously cakes understand that birthdays are a sensitive subject to the ancient. I feel it necessary to submit that this cake contained no cake or frosting, and instead consisted of a box of Oreo cookies, cream cheese, and some chocolate chips.
My parents, in an effort to not agitate the thread that tethers me between youth and a mid-life crises felt it necessary to point out my waning pre-thirties existence. They tossed me a card with a Chicken playing an accordion, which is quite suitable, and to show that they are fancy, it was the type of card with the tiny battery and circuitry that plays music when you open it. Mine, however, was broken, repeating half of the first note of the Chicken Dance over and over, as if the card itself was dumping it's memory and displaying a blue-screen stop error.
Like most major holidays, my birthday is substantially watered down in the United States. Certainly, used car lots offer no-money down to celebrate, and somewhere, a radio ad is trying to sell you a watch to give your girlfriend on this wonderful day, but that's about as far as it goes. In Canada, my birthday is celebrated by sculpting urinal cakes into the shape of Long Island, and then deposit them in Toronto subways. Claymation made-for-tv movies often sing songs about how Canadian urine would solve the guido infestation AND bring joy to children all throughout the world. Mexicans (in Mexico, you silly racist) celebrate by dropping children into a well along with boxes of saltine crackers to the tune of Material Girl. In Ireland, potatoes and beer are consumed to celebrate my glorious existence. This has become so popular that it's slivered it's way into daily Irish culture. In Russia, all female tennis players get together to sing the Pokemon theme while bears dressed in large foam costumes in my image wrestle midgets disguised as frat guys. Most large cities in Germany hold massive-scale LAN parties, lasting up to two full weeks. More Monster Energy drinks are consumed on this event than any given month of the year. In Denmark, old people are sent out to sea on tiny, leaky boats, never to be seen again, to appease the glorious powers that be who smiled down to grant them the blessing that is me.
I suppose now that my larval stage is cycles behind me, I should share my worldly experience with those who care to better themselves before it happens to them. Unfortunately, as far as life experiences go, I've fallen just short of most grand accomplishments. I've lived and thrived, but it should be mentioned that I've performed this in upstate New York, where it's really more of an insult to things that are living and thriving elsewhere to consider it a accomplishment. Really, the unlocked achievement here is that I'm not inbred, and I never turned into a "bro." I'll drink to that. Pitifully enough, I'm now twenty-six years old, seemingly dedicated and hard working, but I've never gone all the way with my Gnome Mage in Azeroth. Not even sixty. When I go to sleep at night, I can hear people laugh. I've never watched an entire season of Battlestar Galactica, I've never seen a funny Dane Cook comedy act, and I've never owned a Cher album, neither legal or otherwise. I can't bleed Tang, I certainly don't know how to speak Klingon enough to get me out of a bar fight, and I can't quite beat the 11.5 parsec record for the Kessel Run. Things will get better, I'm sure.
Here's to another twenty-six years of bringing you the awesome.
