Oh happy day, it's my birthday again. Joy of joys, rapture of fucking raptures. Another year older, another year alone. Just one more day to remind me that I'm not good enough to be a McMahon, not good enough to be loved, and damn sure not good enough to live.
Me, bitter? Not at fucking all. I'm just as peachy as fucking pie right now. Of course, that could be because I'm on my second bottle of Jack, but I really think it's because I know you don't even give a damn that it's my birthday.
Not that anyone gives a flying fuck about me any other day of the year, but for some reason I deluded myself into thinking that my birthday was the exception. Not real sure why the hell I thought you were any different than everyone else, either.
I don't know, maybe it was just a blind prayer that I matter to you. Maybe I convinced myself that it would be different just so I could be disappointed and have an excuse to drown my fucking sorrows one more fucking time.
Oh, you'll call me tomorrow and have some lame ass excuse as to why you didn't come by, didn't call, didn't even send a fucking Hallmark. And like always I'll say that it's no big deal, that I understand how it is, that it's the thought that counts no matter how late it is.
And I'll keep waiting for the words "I'm sorry, Baby" to pass through the phone, even though I know they aren't going to, and you won't have to wait for the words "I love you" to pass through your end, even though you don't want to hear them.
I do love you, no matter how hard I try not to. I know you are never going to give me any fucking kind of stable relationship, and I make up the fucking excuses for you as to why not.
~You got your heart broken before~
~You are afraid you'll hurt me~
~You don't want to tie me down~
~You don't want me to think you are with me for what my name is instead of who I am~
Oh, that last one is my all time fucking favorite. Especially when I see you suck up to dear ol' Dad every god damn week to keep your precious fucking belts.
I really had deluded myself into thinking you weren't like everyone else. I wanted so bad to believe that you were with me because of me, not who my fucking father is and what dating the Boss' son might get you. Fuck me if I know why I do this to myself, but I guess the desire to feel wanted just overrides my better judgment.
But I'd like to thank you, Chris, for reminding me of exactly the way it fucking is. Thanks a whole fucking lot for making this birthday just as extraordinary and special as every one before it. Hell, I would have been disappointed if you had been the exception to the rule, because then I wouldn't get to ask my third bottle the traditional birthday question:
Are we having fun yet?
