Friday, April 24, 2015

Dave-El's Cranky Birthday Post (With the Photo of a Pretty Model)


Greetings from Dave-El in the Fortress of Ineptitude where many secrets are kept, not the least of which is where the hell are my grey slacks? Seriously, how did I lose a pair of my own pants in my own home? 

I don't really own a wide variety of pants. In fact, I own 5 pairs of black pants. It's like Clark Kent and his blue suits or something. I would wear black pants every damn day if I could. I do own blue jeans because I live in America and it's the law. I'm kind of OK with denim; at least it's dark blue.

Still, I occasionally will wear either my tan or olive green khakis whenever I feel I need to add a little variety to my wardrobe and I feel compelled to make myself even less appealing than I already am in my advancing years. 

Today, those years advance just a bit more: it's my birthday. 

I'm not a big fan of birthdays, certainly not my own. There is a certain added level of importance applied to the day. For example, the simple act of taking out the garbage becomes "I can't believe I have to take out the garbage on my birthday!" Or "I can't believe I can't get oral sex and it's my birthday!" Stuff that happens or doesn't happen on a daily basis becomes a source of stress due to inflated expectations one may have regarding a birthday. 

Oh and let me go ahead and put you out of any suspense: yes, I will most certainly be taking garbage out today. 

So I have learned over the years not to have any expectations at all when it comes to my birthday. I know, that sound sad, doesn't it? Pathetic, really. 

Well, sonny (or missy), that comes with the territory of getting older. The more years I add to the grand total of not dying, the less of a fuck I give. It's a blessing and a curse.  

Anyway, I'm not at work today. No, not for any misguided attempt to celebrate the anniversary of my birth. In fact, it's to avoid all the inevitable inanities that get spouted at work such as "You're at work on your birthday? Why?" I want to reply, "Look, if I have to acknowledge that I'm one more year removed away from youth and one more year closer to death, I should at least get some damn work done!" 

Fuck all, I'm cranky about this, huh? 

Yeah, it is more than a bit disingenuous that I profess a lack of interest in my own birthday. The very brittle nature of these statements would indicate otherwise, right?

Oh, fuck off and look at the pretty picture of this model. 



























I copied this off of Bing (yes, I said "Bing"! Don't judge me!) because I was fascinated by the composition of this photo, the almost mystical quality evoked by the snow or dust falling about her. But I couldn't figure out what blog post to put this into so I just shoved it into this pissy post on birthdays.  

Sorry for the negative 'tude. Once I get past this day, maybe I'll be less cranky. Especially if I can find those damn grey pants!

Although, come to think of it, I really don't like those grey pants. 

Oh to hell with it.   

Until next time, be good to one another. 

And I'm so glad my suffering amuses you.  

Suessical!

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