your birthday

Every year in the second half of April I think of your birthday. Birthdays aren't such a big deal to me, but when it's someone whose birth is a miracle to everything that is, I get sentimental. I want to write you love poems. I want to do something particularly effective, particularly good. I want that all the time, but I want it with an extra curlicue of chocolate shaving on top when it might be the anniversary of your birth.

Irks me the more to spend so much time being a wreck when all this is so, too.

I'm digging in my heels. We're banging out my dents and making me functional again or I'm not getting out of their faces. I'm dirt certain sitting totaled in my little house in bumfuck nowhere is NOT a good use of my time.

It's just amazing how averse to time wasting I am while wasting time! Same old stumbling block. Counterproductively calling up a self to trash for failings. Much less effective at it, but still trying! Need to nuke the one calling up selves! That'll show her.