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it takes all my strength not to dig you up from the ground in which you lay  

happy birthday to me

Another year gone. Another year I’d rather not have lived. I feel no change. I feel nothing. For every three hundred sixty five days that passes I become less and less enthusiastic about being alive. So I fantasize about the end at a table surrounded by people who are congratulating me on inching one year closer to death. When I blow out the candles it’s my wish, and I find my way to a dirty bathroom to taste the celebratory pastries for the second time.