The Birthday Card I Wrote To Myself.


Today, I turn 30.

I woke up in my basement to a nice card left by my roommate/mom.


I probably won’t get another card.  I have a couple of friends but nobody’s going to put in the effort to get me a card. That’s exhausting.  You have to go to the store, shuffle through a herd of yentas reading cards, each of them summoning up pain from a former flame they had before they got all gross and old, dying a little inside because they can never be young again, then head to the cashier, to buy just one card.  Do I need a bag?  For a card?  It’s just a card.  But then I gotta carry that shit outside and look like an idiot with my dopey glitter card.

I’m not sure why I need glitter.

I just need glitter.

And now I’m carrying my glitter card on the bus.  And there’s a dude listening to his iPod to the Black Eye Peas.  I Got A Feeling.


You’re really going to blast ‘I Got A Feeling’, shithead?

So yeah.

Nobody’s going to get me a card.


When I was just a tiny-tiny blob of a boy.

So I decided to write my own card.  To myself.

Happy Birthday dummy.

You’re thirty now.  It’s enough already.  Enough with the living at home still.  Unemployment.  Waking up whenever you want.  Dancing in your room to Jewel.  You got moobs.  We get it.  You got freakin’ moobs man.  Who cares.  Other dudes with moobs are doing things with their lives.  Have you SEEN Simon Cowell?  And his man-tits have shape.  Like, actual boob-curve.  Like, if that dude was a chick in junior high, all the other kids would love him.

You see?

Right there, you just equated Simon Cowell to a chick in Junior High.  That’s what I mean.

You’re an idiot.

You always talk about wanting to totally do super hot chicks but what super hot chick wants the baggage you come with?  Actual baggage.  Like, your DVD boxed sets of Golden Girls.  Who wants that.  Chicks don’t want that.  Take an inventory of yourself.  An inventory.  And then see if you’ve named even ONE quality chicks desire.


You just thought ‘personality’ didn’t you?  You only have personality on the Internet man.  And even then, barely.  I mean, if your blog disappeared, Twitter, Facebook, Friendster, hi5, CompuServ, you think anyone would care?  And why are you still on CompuServ?  You’re medieval.

The point is, they wouldn’t.

Anyway, I’m getting bored writing a card to myself.  That’s how interesting you are.  You bore your own self.  And this glitter card is really shitty.  Now you got glitter all over your bed.  Because that’s what your mom wants to do.  Clean up glitter from his 30 year old son’s bed that’s NOT left from a stripper.

You sicken me.

Happy B-day Dee!

love love,



My mom and I.