Fuckin birthdays, man. Every year it’s the same forced barometer, this assessment tool that descends on your life — what haven’t I achieved yet? Where are all the huge, gaping holes that only get bigger with age? Where in my life have I gone wrong and let yet another year go by without fixing it? How much older am I now than Mr or Mrs Amazing who’d isolated the Alzheimers genome by the time they were 29?

Birthdays are a massive headfuck. And you’re never allowed to complain about them because then all the people older than you (which is, admittedly, still a lot) automatically get pissed – who does she think she is, bitching about 31? How dare she! Wait til she gets to 38! Well, to save me the guilt and all of you the anger, I’m just gonna say it: I’m older than I’d like to be, and so are you, and there’s not a god damn thing any of us can do about it.

I’ve never figured out why it’s so much easier for the human mind to focus on what’s wrong, or what’s missing, rather than what’s going right. In the latter category, there are admittedly a ton of things — people you love, things you’ve done that you’re proud of (pissing off Rush Limbaugh topping that list), places you’ve explored. But all of that fades into the background somehow, drowned out by the “What the fuck are you doing with your life don’t you know it’s all meaningless why do you even try oh and by the way look at all these other people so much more impressive than you with their beaming spouses and photogenic children they must have no problems and you will never measure up since another year has gone by and you didn’t get a single thing done that you said you wanted to do last year oh and in case you hadn’t noticed you’re getting crows feet and this is only the beginning.” Happy birthday!

Still, as my grandmother always said: It’s better than the alternative.