Happy Birthday - 7h1r7¥

Here is a story about turning 30, with a bottle of rum and a notion of HST.

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The times have faded. The morning that you wake and realize that you are old, only happens once in a lifetime. To some this day happens at 60, or 25, or never.

Today, I experienced the bite of old age. I went to my cube to accomplish. Based on the hives prerequisite, my role was to produce. The fact that my age had advanced did not factor into this role of production.

My assumption was flawed. Entering the hive at 7:40 am I was greeted by the busy streamers and balloons that said, “You have a birthday.”

“Dear fucking god,” I thought. If only I had emailed HR to alert them to an error in my personal record, I may have avoided this whole mess.

“Oh, you old fuck, don’t be so pessimistic,” were the lackluster words of encouragement that I repeated in my head to overcome the wave of predetermined sentiment that was soon to flow like the bellows of multi-blano.

“Oooooohh, someone has a birthday!”

(Fuck me, I hate that annoying bitch)

“Thank You.” I said

There goes that dude, and that one, all with kind words and birthday wishes. Maybe I should be less harsh. Many people have given the effort to wish me well. Wait a minute you filthy little swine. No one on this fuck pit of a harsh, skin-eating rock would give two fucks if it were not part of corporate monopoly.

Dammit, I have to get out of here. If I see one more fake-ass smile I may grab a hand full of thumb tacs and hang you from the wall.

Off to the liquor store I raced. Grabbed a bottle of the great Zaya rum and headed for home.

This booze is so fine it is like the purest white powder, but in a glass.

Later, after a few calls and the digital banner, I wonder why the hell punk rock is a genre that really has transitioned into pansy fuck. Personified by the idea that, “I have a cunt, I am a man, and I have a mohawk, and a duct tape wallet.”

When did punk become corporate fuck pop? Why do I have to be subjected to this shit?

Happy Birthday, you old fuck. In about 30 years you’ll be dead. Relish the last remaining years. Drink up! Alcohol destroys your liver. It is not a myth.

Grab that new seat on the bus that goes to your demise. Good luck, no fuck you, there is no luck.

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