I’m slightly offended. Everyone was wishing me a happy birthday a few days ago, but nobody cares today that I’m any older.

I’ve said it before and it hasn’t seemed to frost on anyone, so I’ll say it again: Birthdays are a fairytale.

For some reason, we all have this fantasy that one magical day a year, we are granted a free pass from etiquette. This day we reign supreme as king, or in my case, a beautiful queen with a shiny tiara, and we get everything we want. I blame the root on my father dressing me in a white polonaise during my youthful years in early September.

You know what I did on my birthday? I went to class. I went to work. I went to bed before 11 p.m. because I have responsibilities the next day.

Am I grouch or grounded in reality? Usually I’m just a big grump with a half-page to fill in a college newspaper, but I feel confident in my justification of outrage this time.

Why don’t we wish each other a great day everyday? I’m a person and I can have a good time whenever I feel like it, not restricted to the anniversary of spilling out of my mother. 

There shouldn’t be a one-all-to-be-all day. There’s no 24-hour grace period for acting like a butthole, either. Just always be a delightful person, with manners and respect, or always be a butthole.

But of course not! Pop culture has told us birthdays give us a green light to act like fools, pop bottles in clubs, honk strangers’ body parts and everything’s cool, man. If I were to get birthday sex in any form, it would only be a situation that would get me a felony charge again.

Let’s congratulate each other constantly for continuing to age. That’s what we’re really celebrating, right? The fact I managed to make it through another cycle of the Earth without falling into a pit or getting run over by an airplane. I’m older than when I started writing this and I haven’t died yet. Which is surprising since there’s a blood vessel near my temple ready to burst.

The thing that really irks the most about it all, majority of the people who go out of their way to wish you a herpy berthdurr don’t really care about you for 364 days, 23 hours and 59 minutes of the year. Some notification tells you it’s someone’s birthday and you should remind him or her they’re not alone on the planet with cats.

Think about how many actual exact birthdates you remember. I’ve got 26 : 1 odds that it’s people you actually talk to on a regular basis or some celebrity that shares your birthday. Talking about you, Jeff Foxworthy. 

I’m not offended if you don’t know when my birthing day is. I’m upset you’d think it’s a reason we should spark up an awkward moment in the first place.

The only people I want to talk to on my birthday is the same as any other days – my friends. Most of the Internet friends are there so I can make sure we aren’t in the same place at the same time. We wouldn’t want to experience the still air of an in-person meeting, now would we?

Let’s all try being nice and inquiring about each other’s day more often than one ignorable annual moment.

Now please excuse me while I wipe this cake off my face.