It’s the anticipation that gets me in the end. Anticipation’s the wrong word. Dread? Anxiousness? Staring at the clock. Checking my phone. The corner of my computer screen. Waiting. Ticking the minutes. Thoughts caught in my throat. Weighing my heart down.

I end my thirtieth year with French toast and mini-sausages because it’s whatever. In half an hour, I’ll embark on my thirty-first year on this earth. And it’s a humbling experience because there’s so much eating away at me.

The advice everyone poured out is taking place as we speak. Only not my decision. And it’s frustrating.

In the past, at midnight, my phone lit up at midnight with a text message from her. Wishing me a happy birthday. Or she’d wait until midnight on the phone with me. Or I’d ignore everyone else until she woke up in the morning. The birthday wishes always came from her. Not last year. Or the year before that. Or the year before that. I’m nonessential. Disposable.

Disappointment. That’s the word I’m looking for. The disappointment gets me in the end because I allow it to. Because I’ve defined my self-worth by an absentee lover. An absentee friend. A person I’ve placed so value in her opinion, but who never completely valued me.

So here’s to another year of self-loathing. Cheers.

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