XXIII: Birthday Weekend

Not mine. God, no. But I was still forcibly compelled to "celebrate." As if getting older were something to be glad of. It seems to me that birthdays are designed to congratulate people on not having died over a span of the previous 364 days. Good for you! Have some cake.

Cupcakes, anyway.

I'd say life is like a box of miniature cupcakes that come in a variety of flavors, except no, it isn't.

As if that weren't enough she dragged me to a movie. In a cinema. Where we were surrounded by other people. Hadn't we just done this the previous week? In London no less?

She never looks this happy with me.

Seats weren't even comfortable. But at least I had one this time.

And this is a terrible angle besides.

Fine. I endured and prayed the jubilation over the simple fact of having existed for any number of years was at an end. But no. Just when I was certain it couldn't get any worse, she insisted I come along with a group of friends to a comedy club.

Do I look amused?

Though the low grade of humor turned out to be the least of my worries.

The best I can say of the evening, besides having come out of it in one piece, is that I walked away with pastries to my name. (Though my name is not Mike.)

The final touch to the weekend was Christmas decorating. Look, there can only be one star at the top of the tree . . .

Just as well she chose the other one; not a terribly comfortable perch, and I can't imagine having been required to stay there for a week or more.

Whether I survive the remainder of the holidays remains to be seen.