I don't particularly dislike birthdays. They're just no longer imbued with the same joy as, say, my 16th birthday where I got to drive (legally) for the first time, or my 21st where I could sell my old license to a guy on my residence hall floor because he looked like me.
I'm 35 today.
There's no privilege that comes with this age.
I can already get lottery tickets.
I can already get car rental.
The thrill of voting for morons wore off years ago.
And the military probably doesn't want me anymore.
By noon today, I'll be annoyed by the persistent push notifications on my phone that tell me that Facebook reminded someone I barely have contact with in the tangible world that it's my birthday.
When you read this, I'll probably nursing a headache from an evening of acknowledging that my parents had sex 35 years and nine months ago.
Today, I'll pour a drink for myself. I'll toast that I made it another year.
I'll go to work on Monday.
Here's looking forward to 36.