by Joe Buonfiglio
I am one of those folks who simply does not take his birthday well. There’ll be none of that accepting of the passage of time with style and grace bullshit going on here. As The Black Wave of depression rushes over me to swamp the ship of my existence, I usually crawl into a bottle of Irish whiskey the night before and stay there for about 48 hours in a desperate attempt to avoid all those with a cheerful “HAPPY BIRTHDAY!” gleefully waiting to burst over their lips.
So whenever my birthday happens to fall on my blog-post day as it does this year, I use it as an excuse to enable the more indolent side of my nature and hang a “Gone Fishing” sign out on that edition of Potpourri of the Damned.
This was supposed to be one of THOSE birthday blog blow-off days.
However, as I slogged through the inky pages of the local newspaper having stopped on the obituary page as — for some unknown reason other than possibly the excessive fear surrounding the realization of my own mortality — has now evolved into yet one more obsessive indulgence as I get older, my teenage son took a moment to divert his eyes from his phone’s touchscreen to take notice of this.
“Jesus, Dad,” he uttered with the confusion of a deer in the headlights of a semi barreling down on it on a hot summer night, “the newspaper? The obits? How the hell old are you anyway?”
Yes, he’s six-foot three, but he’s still a little bastard for saying that … and on my birthday, too.
How could I let such an insensitive interruption of my monumental display of lethargy go without the proper documentation for posterity? I can’t … which is why you’re left reading this inane bit of self-indulgent drivel at this very moment.
Oh well. Depression’s ugly face is at my back psychically willing me to return beneath the sheets I arose from just a scant few hours ago. Besides, this bottle of Jameson isn’t gonna drink itself, now is it? So happy birthday to me … and to all a good night.
© 2016 Joseph P. Buonfiglio All Rights Reserved.