It is my birthday today, and it does not start off on a very high note. I wake too early, with a terrible headache that feels like the ghost of Andre the Giant is trying to crush my skull like an empty beer can. On top of this, there is a pain in my right shoulder which has arrived without any sort of exertion on my part from the previous day, leading me to conclude that I must have slept unmoving for hours in some sort of accidentally-achieved advanced yoga position which has opened the flow of chi throughout my body far more than I am able to handle.
I am thirty-six today, and feeling every bit of it.
Nikola informed me last night that he would be taking me out for dinner this evening, and Bez told me that she will be taking care of the lunch part of the meal plan, but I warned them both against birthday festivities this year. I am not feeling celebratory these days. I have no specific thing that I can point at to lay the blame for my mood upon. Perhaps it’s having entered into the tail end of my thirties that is doing it. Maybe there’s something in the air of this house—it’s been overly quiet here the past few weeks. The Kitchen God has barely stirred, and the currents upon which the voices and whispers from the nooks and crannies ride have been overly still.
I have barely stirred either, to be honest. I have stories half-finished and spread across my desk, pieces of writings promised to others and promised to myself. I can’t seem to find the motivation to get anything moving, which is irritating, like a splinter caught just deep enough under the skin that I can’t dig it out.
Perhaps I need a change.
But I wonder what that change might be?
When did birthdays stop being quite so much fun?