Happy birthday... Want to fuck?

As noted on our dry erase board, "Today is trash day... and Rose's birthday." What better juxtaposition to relate my feelings on this, my 23rd birthday. Coincidentally, I was still the one to drag the trash can out to the curb. Obviously, the first part of the message, written by me, was misunderstood. Who knew ten days could make such a difference? Maybe it's me.

I don't feel that 23 accurately represents my age. I feel old. At 23, am I already that bitter person who'd rather forget their own birthday? Twenty years ago, I was living in this house. Twenty years ago, I had a huge party with strawberry birthday cake, a Disney pinata, and, "I cut the cake all by myself." I now have memories spanning two decades.

On this day, twenty years ago, our neighbors' son was killed riding his bike down Riverside. I feel old.

Today, I start a new job, but fear it will be the beginning of so much more. But here I am, still sitting in my favorite spot and writing like any other day. A thought just hit me, "Is this my new year? Should I take this opportunity to resolve something?" Resolve something... interesting choice of words. I think that phrase deserves nothing but a resounding YES!

Where to start... which conflict deserves priority? It's obvious; 23 years and I can still rationalize thoughts like it was yesterday. Will that ever end? The decisions made in the next few hours will not only shape my day, but be memorialized until I'm too old to remember. Birthdays have their own special memory bank. Maybe that means I'm not as old as I feel.

I thought it about one person, but really it applies to almost everyone that might have a giving feeling today, "The only thing I was from you is the conversation we've been avoiding."

Fuck it, Happy Birthday to me.

Observer

"It's not that good; I've done better."

"No, it is. You underestimate yourself. It forces the observer to realize one day he will die.
What greater way to feel alive? What greater statement than the beauty in futility?"

"You see beauty in everything."

"I see beauty in you."

"And that's what kills me."

"Why?"

"It's not that you see beauty, it's that you refuse to see ugly. This transformation of futility to beauty causes you not to feel the pain that's at the core of existence."

"How can transformation of pain to beauty be wrong?"

"Because it's simply not real. It's a band-aid. It's concealer. You say I'm beautiful, you say I'm exceptional, but you don't want me. Why? Because that's pain, it's dirty and ugly. It's real life art that can't be lensed over. You love me as an idea, as something you can stand back and abstract into beauty, but you don't dare enter the painting. I have a red, velvet rope around me, placed by you, so I'm not touched, not damaged. I'm not art! You can't be an observer; that doesn't work. I can't make you feel alive. To live is to suffer; to be aware is to feel pain. To stand back and merely observe is denial."