If yesterday I was the sad Swadloon, today I’m this happy and flower bedecked Swadloon.

(Also, this art is by SachiiA and I love it. Swadloon looks so HAPP and content.)

My birthday is officially over! WHEW!

I don’t like my birthday. I don’t enjoy my birthday. I dread and dislike my birthday.

The roots of this trend are easy to see: growing up, I was often reminded of how unimportant I was, never more than on my birthday. My dad couldn’t remember it.

Ever.

Not the month, not the date, nothing. And he made it abundantly clear he didn’t care.

This wouldn’t be quite so bad, but my brothers’ birthdays are both within three weeks of mine on either side: one on November 11th, the other December 1st.

And yet.

For two years I changed my birthday from November 28th to October 28th and he NEVER FIGURED IT OUT. I told him about that years later and his response was unsurprisingly uninterested.

There’s so much more to it than that, but I don’t think it’s prudent.

So here we are: it’s Thursday. It’s raining (thank goodness; we need it!). I want to play more Fallout 76 because exploring the wasteland feels like a good metaphor for my psyche.

I’m grateful to have made it through another crappy birthday, and grateful the next one is literally as far off as it could be.

Today I’m a happier Swadloon, but still cocooned up.

I’ll take it.