Here’s the story of a £1 flyswatter, celebration and hairless toes.
MOTHS! MOTHS EVERYWHERE! ARRGH! OH, LORD HELP ME! This flyswatter is useless! Admittedly, it says ‘fly’ in its name, BUT ONE WOULD HAVE THOUGHT IT WOULD WORK ON MOTHS! They’re everywhere, man! You simply cannot picture my hell. Standing in the middle of my bedroom with a cheap £1 flyswatter desperately batting away moth after moth. BUT THEY KEEP COMING! And screaming isn’t helping like it does with tennis. Oh no, they scream and they can hit a bouncy ball. I scream standing in the middle of a room with a bright red face frantically waving a flyswatter about and all I get is weird looks. Am I the crazy one? AM I! It’s the moths that are crazy! If they don’t behave, I’m getting an aerosol canister and a lighter. That’ll show who’s really the crazy one!
It’s been a very hot July. It’s my birthday month, which people always assume means that it’s really good. I hate my birthday. No point birthdays. Sad occasion. After all, you are one year closer to death. Unless you give up smoking. In which case, bravo. Hand well played, sir or ma’am. Moths are at the centre of my hatred. I spend my birthdays with my windows open. Because it’s hot. Moths spend my birthdays harassing me. Sadly, a restraining order failed to work. Some would argue it’s because it’s hard to enforce. Others would argue it’s because it’s just plain stupid.
So there I am, batting away moths on my birthday. And there you are, in November, nice and warm with a blanket around you, sitting next to a warm fire watching typical November crap on the TV as the snow falls outside. Surrounded by your family because families are rather more adhesive in the winter months. You’re the one better off. Bloody July. Couldn’t mother have hung on for another week? It can’t be that painful. Ahem…
So next time you’re having your non-summer birthday, think of me. Think of how much worse off you’d be if it were in the summer. You’d be swatting a thousand moths a minute screaming “WHY WON’T YOU DIE, YOU FURRY BASTARDS!” before collapsing on the floor and curling up into a ball crying like a single woman with her face buried in a tub of ice-cream on Valentine’s Day.
Of course, my hatred for my birthday spreads far beyond moths. Not much farther, but a tad farther. Although it is worth pointing out that moths are responsible for the immense pain I find myself in. Oh, it’s nothing really. A moth got in an awkward place. To swat it, I had to contort my body into positions best unseen. I think I pulled something. Making it my second wimpiest injury. Hurt by a moth. My wimpiest injury was that time a Christmas Tree attacked me. My third wimpiest injury was that time a Christmas Tree attacked me after I attacked it for attacking me. It was a difficult Easter.
Of course, I shan’t ramble on about hitting a tree with a flyswatter with my one good hand after the tree sprained my right wrist. No, this is about my birthday. I’ve never really been fond of celebrations. It’s not because I’m a mopey mope-a-mope-a-tron. I think it’s because of how others see birthdays. People are always incredibly judgmental when you don’t go out or have a big bash for your birthday. I just want a quiet, normal day. I’m not good at celebrating. I’m an awkward celebrator.
And parties – really, who invented parties? All that loud noise and people talking to me. I have moths to kill. Shoes to shine. They’re not mine, I just like shining shoes. I have sheets to fold, too. Items to arrange in a correct position in relation to other items, a very important job that. If it went undone, it’s the kind of thing that would keep me awake. Then there’s dusting to do. Love dusting. Nails to file. Files to nail. Things to organize. Toe hair to trim. What? It’s unsightly. That’s the life for me.
Yes, it may very well be the sole reason that I’m soon-to-be-23 and still a virgin, still never had a girlfriend, and have still never kissed anyone, because, let’s face it, what girl would find any of the previous paragraph attractive? But I don’t care! Do what makes you happy in life. Providing it’s legal. And moral. If you want to party and have promiscuous sex with strangers, by all means, go ahead. I’d rather water the plants. Doesn’t mean I’m not happy. And it doesn’t make my birthday any less enjoyable.
What it does do, however, is make my birthday a tad pointless. Maybe I’ll enjoy it. Maybe I won’t. We’ll find out in two weeks. But I’m happy. That’s my point. Life is a celebration. Why celebrate one day of birth when you should celebrate 365 days of life, every single year?
Am I unusual? Probably. But aren’t we all? Those moths give me hell. That Christmas Tree gave me hell. That attic door gave me hell when it suddenly disappeared causing me to fall out of said attic. Sure, the door may have just been open and I may have just been a tad forgetful, but that’s not the point. It gave me hell, is the point. Just like the shed when I fell through its roof. But I don’t care. In two weeks, I’ll be an old man. 23. What? That is old to a 22-year-old. But it made me think. There’s more to life than those bloody moths.
Not much more, mind, but a little more. I shall not let them turn me crazy.
Now, if you don’t mind, I’m off to replace my flyswatter with a flamethrower…
American writer, Jarod Kintz (b. 1982), once said: “If I told you I’ve worked hard to get where I’m at, I’d be lying, because I have no idea where I am right now”.
Peace Out :|:
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