Birthdays are supposed to be a happy time. You’re a year older. A year wiser. A year closer to driving. Or drinking. Or graduating. Or death. I find birthdays to be an annual reminder of all the things I still haven’t accomplished. A review of my failures if you will. And every year I say that I will do more, I will do better, I will be better. And every year, I find myself in the same place I was 20 years ago. Bored. Dream unrealized. A little more battered. A little more bruised. And a little more worse for wear. But at least there will be cake. So I guess it’s not all depressing.