Happy birthday to... who?

In the tradition of lifeless losers across the world, I'm making a blog post on my birthday. As I sit here in my office staring at this white text box, listening to "The Beatles - Strawberry Fields", I reflect upon the terrible year I've had, the troubles and tribulations, losses of both materialistic value and of dear family members. Sometimes I wonder what the point of this cycle of life and death is, and if one even really exists. I have come to an understanding, and even an appreciation of this abysmal existence we humans bear, however when facing what is possibly the most depressing situation I've ever had the liberty of experiencing, it's difficult to come to terms with the emptiness.

Why life sucks:

1: We all die. Eventually.

2: Heaven most likely doesn't exist. However, Hell might.

3: Every year you become older. The girls you are attracted to always stay the same age.

If these three aren't enough, you should wear a thorn crown and go join a nudist colony you hippie piece of shit.

Back to my day:

Working on the celebration of your consummation isn't something I'm alone on, but the deeper meaning behind today and the ultimate reasoning behind why I bottle up my emotions and keep them undisclosed, (which is only masked behind the most artificial smile ever mustered) is the true inspiration for my barricaded mind state and psychological hatred towards every living being. Anyway, I'm going to get destructively drunk and cause some chaos all while laughing at other peoples misfortune. Maybe the government will pay for my oil spills, too.

Learn to milk a cow...

We can have lunch on the veranda, or perhaps take a cruise to the Islands and sip a martini on the beach. These aren't my pickup lines, but if they were, I'd either get laid a lot or be sitting in a kitchen with Chris Hanson, confused and ashamed. Because the only girls that would fall for these most likely have trouble purchasing a bottle of NyQuil from the pharmacy without a parent present. I wonder if guys realize that a lie is only fool proof if the girl's a fool. It's funny how someone can spend their entire life making minimum wage, driving an aged, partially disassembled vehicle and sleep within the vicinity of their parents home, yet manage to score a gorgeous blond with huge seemingly inflatable tits.

It's complicated:

Lies can be lethal as well as pleasurable. I'm sure you can try to convince every girl you sleep with that the length of your pinkie is 8 inches, but what will you do when it fails? What if amongst the innocent sluts you pick from the litter of drunk, consumer friendly attention whores you find a bright crayon of intuition and know-how? A penny for your thought? How about a dollar for your excuse? Try sleeping through that nightmare.

It's important to remember:

I've always found lies to be the foundation of any good relationship, within a certain set of limitations of course. You can't have your cake, eat it, regurgitate it, and sell it back to the bakery. Can you? I suggest we all be honest for the first 5 minutes of every conversation we ever have with a human being of the opposite sex (animal and fake plant talkers feel free to victimize your pets/inanimate objects with lies of your sexual prowess and career achievements).