Happy Birthday to Me (With Walrus)

When we last left memoir land, I was dating ol’ Gills-and-Fins, but still mystified by the concept of “the one.” This is a throwback journal entry from seven years ago this week, written on the day I turned 30.

Is 30 this bad for everyone?

 

Happy Birthday to Me.

In another 17 minutes, I will have lived exactly 30 years. Right now I’m trying to decide how I feel about life: I’m somewhere between barely content and supremely dissatisfied. Some woman next to me here at Barnes and Noble just dropped a cream-cheese-covered bagel all over the cookbook she was reading. Two homely mothers are having a little catch-up session by the cream and sugar station, and I wish they’d take their socializing elsewhere and leave me to my miserable loneliness.

It was a weepy morning. I woke up feeling listless because I knew [Gills and Fins] hadn’t really planned to do anything special for my birthday. Not that it’s his responsibility. At least I tell myself it’s not, trying to be reasonable. But I think partners are supposed to do stuff like that. Well, spouses are, at least. Maybe it’s just one of those things about being married. One of the secrets of the shiny-ring club that I can’t possibly understand from the outside. Aliens! Of course, they probably think I’m the alien. But that is not so, for I am the writer and therefore have the power to condemn anyone who does not share my opinions or ways of behaving.

On my left is a tower of Godiva chocolates. To my right, the homely mothers have just taken leave of one another (finally).

Boy, overheard at nearby table: “If the book isn’t about sports, then I’m not interested.”

I wish I could kill him. With anything, anything nearby that could conceivably be used as a weapon. A box of chocolates. A chair. Even a walrus. In the shower this morning, [Gills and Fins] and I were discussing the logistics of using a walrus as a weapon. We came to some conclusions. First, there are no real sharp parts on a walrus…WAIT! Neither one of us remembered the tusks! How could we have forgotten the tusks? I must explore that avenue. Anyway, we pretty much decided that a walrus’ real asset is his heft, so you could defeat someone by throwing a walrus on top of him and crushing (possibly suffocating) him. However, a walrus is way too heavy for one person to lift. So, ideally, if you had 15 people against one enemy, and there was a walrus nearby, the walrus could successfully be used as a weapon. This was all discussed after an episode of outright, unconcealable weeping, in which I proclaimed I was angry at myself because I felt like I had a walrus wallowing around in my brain. This was my way of describing my headache, torpor, and complete lack of interest in sex. Stupid walrus was just wallowing around up there going “Uhhhhhrhhhhrhuhhrrrhur” and never making any fucking sense. I know that sound looks like a horse’s neigh but if you really pay attention to the phonics and give it a sort of guttural emphasis, managing to sound senseless, you’ll find it sufficiently walrus-like. I really can’t believe this whole stupid paragraph.

The best thing...
The best thing…

 

about the internet...
…about the internet…

 

...is that you can type in "walrus weapon" and get exactly what you're looking for.
…is that you can type in “battle walrus” and get exactly what you’re looking for.

 

There’s no reason for me to feel sorry for myself. I should just be happy.

I guess if you could actually aim the walrus, you could impale the victim with one or both of its tusks.

I need to be wanted at this point. [G and F] always tells me how much he loves me, and how wonderful I am, but it’s like I don’t really believe it. I don’t know why. I’m tired of things. Everything. The truth is, I’m rather depressed.

Why am I sitting here alone? Why didn’t I plan something, a party or dinner, like I wanted to? Because it felt false. I don’t really have anyone I feel like spending time with right now. People are so disappointing, a fact which was just made obvious with the appearance of this woman with bright pink Crocs and a dog purse. Really. Throw her in the aesthetic deletion pile along with that odious little boy who doesn’t read about anything but sports.

So, is this how you’re going to start your next decade? Pretty little curmudgeon? Frowning little flower?

People are not meant to be alone. This is unarguably, achingly true.

 

Photo credits: http://earthvsthederek.deviantart.com/

http://bangaloreboy.deviantart.com

http://greatcaesarspost.blogspot.com

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