blowing out candles

i feel a little better.
i feel a little stronger.
i feel a little sadder, though,
the days are growing longer.
i feel a touch nostalgic.
i feel this calm wash over.
i feel a little crazy, still...
i feel a little colder.
i feel a little brasher.
i feel a little closer.
i feel a thicker heartbeat, which
will soon be one year older.
i feel like breaking walls.
i feel like breaking down.
i feel like i should yell and scream
so you can hear the sound,
of everything you gave me,
and how words can be a killer,
and see how much i want to hold
this bloody, beaten thriller;
it's the story of a cowboy
of a man who should know better,
the basket of our dovetail dive
in a desert of disaster.

its my birthday. irony is one of my favorite things of all time. i love it... how else can you take it but with a smile, which is another one of my favorite things...

“A taste for irony has kept more hearts from breaking than a sense of humor, for it takes irony to appreciate the joke which is on oneself.”
-Jessamyn West

so the irony today, you see, is that for the last four or five years, i have kept to myself on my birthday. well, kept it for myself, at least. i was actually performing last year with the dames but i didn't tell anyone it was "my special day" so it doesn't count. the years before that were spent with my cats and an ex-boyfriend and two bottles of red wine and a movie. i don't really care about birthdays. i get sad just knowing i'm past my quarter-life crisis and heading up to my mid-life one. that sucks.

so here i am, on my birthday, with a beautiful party dress i bought in orlando on black friday to wear on the first birthday i really wanted to go out on; the first one that, leading up to it, approached with excitement and happiness. i have a dress and a hat and shiny new stilettos, and i was going to walk in the park with a flask and there would be hand holding and possibly ice skating and champagne sunsets and birthday awesomeness... and, now, with whom will i be spending my birthday?

with me. alone, in a party dress, at the cabaret. how's that for an ironical situation? well, i guess it is ME. i don't know what it is about me that magnetizes these things, but shit, these lessons get overwhelming at times. how could they not? it's like they're being catapulted in my direction from all angles of life. LEFT FIELD! no, no... GO LONG GO LONG! wait - SHORTSTOP! WHO'S ON THIRD BASE???

and i'm watching this game of baseball from the dugout with a cast on my broken arm. which, ironically, did happen... when i was eleven.

but it's alright. i was never really all that good at baseball, anyway. i guess my preference for cigarettes, alcohol, and not getting sweaty unless it involves ballet or a naked man surpasses that of a penchant for organized sports. and i like that better anyway, which is NOT ironical at all because i'm okay by myself. i always have been, and i always will be. i don't need another person to tell me i'm pretty in my badass party dress. i've known it all along. it's why i bought the damn thing.

k.