It's 8:57 PM. The air outside smells of incoming rain, and there are no stars. Exactly 157 people have wished me happy birthday as of now—some family, some friends, some strangers. Though I appreciate their greetings, I can't help but see the phoniness of it all, to use the words of J. D. Salinger. Because at the end of the day, I ate dinner by myself and walked around for an hour like a wandering idiot. I know if I had asked, my closest friends would come, but I don't want to ask them. I want them to be there for me at their own will, not because I'm buying them dinner or because I pressured them. I hate myself for expecting so much, for maybe a slice of cheap cake with a cheap candle or cheap flowers. I don't care as long as it's from them.
Two of the people I consider very important to me haven't even remembered. This is what breaks my heart the most.
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You come to me, running with tears in your eyes and your arms longing to embrace me my hands, shaking drenched in blood, touch you for the f...
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