Success and Birthdays

People think I hate birthdays. It's not true.

Birthdays are often the excuse for all the people in your life who want something from you to come out of the woodwork and feign caring about you. By the standard dolt's measure of success, every year of my birthday in the last 15 or so years, I attain more of something they want. When is there a better time for every former frenemy sniveler to emote their excitement for your birthday celebration?

The same works for death. The Mages of Death descend on any opportunity to show themselves, earn points, and eat free food. Do they expect you to go to their parent's funeral when that time comes? I don't know.

I remember going to my grandfather's funeral when I was a kid. At the time my father was the public leader of a somewhat large workforce. Hundreds of people who worked for my father descended upon the funeral. His staff came to be seen, some delivered (and others ate food), and some obsequious people cried real tears. Why?

They never had met or known my grandfather at all!

Years later when my grandmother died, almost nobody came. It's not that she was a woman or wasn't a good person. At that point my father's power had disappeared, he was no longer the boss. He was no longer the vessel in which to game their plot to climb life's twisted Penrose ladder.

I know what I am for most people. I am a vessel for validation. I am a rung on life's ladder. There are maybe a few people who will probably commiserate in time – when immolation strikes, sticking around to watch one whither and burn -- out of glee, shared sentiments, or pity.

When I really need validation or attention, at least I can pay a restaurant staff to sing me happy birthday and clank some pots. But when I die, I can't guarantee the same – unless my eventual offspring have something others covet.

Look here. Telegrams.  Hundreds of telegrams from every corner of this great state. Wishing you happy birthday. You want me to read them?

No.

One from the Governor, United States Senator...

It must be getting on to election time...

Everybody here, including Big Daddy, owes thanks to those in high places who...

Gave us nothing. Every scrap on this table was raised right here on this place, Deacon. I made a pastureland out of this place when it was nothing but a swamp.