Happy Belated Birthday

A friend of mine on Facebook I don’t recall ever meeting wished me a “Happy belated birthday.” And I replied, promptly—You think I’m going to let that slide? You have got some fucking nerve. You had all day to wish me a happy birthday on time like everyone else. Even my auto insurance carrier came in with a quick feliz cumpleaños around 4 PM. But no. You had to wait till two AM to do it. And don’t give me that I-live-on-the-West-Coast-so-it-was-still-11-PM-here-crap. If I wanted to celebrate my birthday on Pacific time I’d fly out to LA, smoke some crack, and hang out in a bathhouse.

What part of “You missed the cutoff, schmuck,” do you not understand? You had 24 hours, but you kept procrastinating. You did the dishes, did your laundry, started the drive to work, issued CPR to a crash victim on the side of the road, gave blood, filled out a police report, arrived at work, punched in a dozen hours at the ER during a particularly violent night in the hood—all that but apparently no time for little old me. Not even five seconds to click on one of the FB happy birthday emojis. I like the one with a little cake, thank you.

So what about me? What about how I sat there all day watching , waiting, hoping? And nothing. And then after crushing me like a walnut, squashing me like a tomato, a full two hours into the new diurnal cycle you have the gall to wish me a happy belated birthday? You broke my heart, Fredo.

You think you can just casually wish me a happy birthday on what is actually someone else’s birthday? Think again, asshole. God gave me this day for a reason—not so you could bespoil it with your negligent, cavalier nativity tracking. Not so you could treat it like a Seinfeld rerun. When it comes to my birthday I don’t do sloppy seconds.

Do you even know what I went through on the day of my birth? I squeezed out a tiny hole. I was gasping for air. I was covered in blood. Some dude slapped me on the ass, and a few days later some other dude tried to cut my dick off. And you think you can just waltz in here 120 minutes late like it’s no big deal? I guess it’s all about you. But what about my feelings?

I’ll bet you wished your fentanyl dealer a punctual happy birthday. What am I, chopped liver? Now I have to sit in front of my PC another 364 days hoping you eventually get it right? What does that say about us? Oh sure, you had to take your mom to the oncologist. You had to take your dad to the osteopath. Blah, blah, blah. Does the word “commitment” mean anything at all to you?

Once you’re just a nanosecond belated you might as well be six months delinquent. It’s all the same to me. You’re banished from the Worship Me Club. Let’s be clear—there is no coming back from this. You know what this means, don’t you? You’re out. Leave the keys to the club under the mat. Clean out your locker on the yacht. And no more nookie.

And now I find out you’re not even real. You’re just a bot I picked up when I started fishing for Ukrainian porn on the dark web. This should have been taken care of the right way—with an algorithm utilizing at least three decades of my metadata.

Well, I think this is really it for us. I guess we’ll just go our separate ways—you back to the bot farm at the 6,000 acre data center in Siberia and me back to my man cave with the 14 Megan Fox posters. Don’t hold your breath waiting for me to wish you a timely birthday. Even if you had one.