Well, I guess the upshot to my so-far rubbish 23rd birthday is that I've hit the big 100!! In terms of blog posts, of course.
Last night, I convinced myself that Donny would call, text message, or leave me a Facebook email wishing me a happy birthday. Or at the very least, inviting me around for a birthday romp. You know, something.
Of course. Who was I kidding? I still felt sorry for myself this morning when I dragged myself out of bed and to school, where I continued to be unnecessarily surly and unhappy. Since I made a point of not telling any of my classmates when my birthday was, when I started crying during the first break because I hadn't heard from him, Miranda and Grace were suitably shocked and insisted on buying me morning tea. It's not fair. He made me like this.
Last February, I was almost at a point where I had become unaware of his existence. Since our silence extended almost a month from the time I sent him the birthday card to the time he called me, I had stopped expecting texts to be from him, stopped leaving my phone on loud and vibrate mode overnight, just in case. But after that, he became erratic, just because he knew he could. Any time of the night or day was fair game for an unsolicited phone call or text message, and I responded every time. In one of those ever-occurring moments of time-inconsistent decision making, I now look back in anger to the very first time I hauled myself out of my then-boyfriend's bed to cater to Donny's needs and wish I'd just said no. It's now two weeks short of a year later and I can still feel my blood run cold when I get a text or phone call after 10pm.
Where is this going? I'm not really sure, but either way I'm a wreck today because I haven't heard from him. This afternoon I returned home from school and slipped over on our driveway (which is loose gravel currently, due to a watermains reconstruction project in Bayswater), subsequently scraping the skin off the front of my right leg. I've resultedly had to postpone what was going to be my birthday outing to the West Auckland pool that I so love (not sure why, as I had my last swimming meet there in 2005 where I failed to qualify for the 2006 Commonwealth Games and then quit) because my leg is a mess.
You could say it's been the worst birthday ever.
That's if you don't count my 21st, where my "party" was my sister and her two friends (Kirby just didn't turn up. How out of character.) getting drunk at an al fresco restaurant and then breaking out the then-legal herbal pills. Rock on.
This is how I've come to spend what I proclaimed at 12:33am today was going to be "the best day in the history of the world" on the brink of tears. It's now 18 hours and 1 minute since I made that seemingly outlandish statement, and I'm hiding from the world in my bedroom at 2/70.
I don't like our new flatmate.