Friends occasionally tell me I make too much of my birthday. I try to remind them, it's not about getting my hopes up and seeing them crushed. I've come to expect very little. After 38 years of mostly shitty birthdays, the best I can hope for is to not get stabbed in the parking lot on my way home from my second job -or at least not get stabbed anywhere vital. It's that grim. More times than not, my luck goes completely sour around this time. There usually isn't cake. There often isn't ice cream, but I do get to be a pinata for seven to ten days. That's always something.
I dread June. I hate it for the virtually unavoidable downward trajectory. Nobody likes bottoming out, even if things usually get better in July.
What I didn't see coming was my year-old car suddenly failing. That happened this morning. I've got power, but it won't turn over. It just clicks. Sounds expensive. At the very least, it's a tow truck to the bottom of the hill to a garage and probably a couple of hundred bucks in repairs.
And fuck... I've still got six days to go.