Another birthday not remembered.

It’s not that I forgot the 411 about my birthday.

It’s that I don’t remember the day I exited her womb.

Yet I was raised to celebrate this unremembered event.

After all, this is the day when my life really began.

At least that’s what they’ve told me.

Again, I do not remember.

But in the past year:


I hit 41 years old.

I lost 25 plus pounds.

I kept feeling like I’m 33.

I moved 2,055 miles away.

I further accepted David Villalva.

I went another year without alcohol.

I welcomed changes and the unknown.

I renamed my blog domain more than once.

I met a panic attack for the first time in 15 years.

I prayed for more ill people than ever before.

I spoke in front of my largest audience.

I wrote for my favorite audience.

I synthesized many theories.

I empathized severely.

I disguised barely.


As a teenager, I felt pressure on many birthdays.

Friends would tell me spells about their extravaganzas.

I did not want such things, but worse, I could not match such things.

Yet I still attempted to position my birthday(s) as something close to “epic.”

So despite my birth being a forgotten extraction event, I pursued my own “epic.”

I scheduled excursions.

I wish listed possessions.

I earned depressions.

I gave impressions.

I drank libations.


All for the sake of wanting to say “My b-day was so epic.”

Until one day, I chose something else.

Please do not mistake me, I still observe the day I cannot recall, but I don’t let its parade differ much from other days.


Or rise at 4:41am.

Maybe I feel spectacular.

Often I flee the regular.

Nothing in particular.

Well, mostly the popular.

Because I believe in irregular.

Where experiencing stellar

stays totally tubular.


Thoughts recycle my mind regardless of age.

My body contracts and expands. My current shape is better than some of my early twenties.


I celebrated in the mirror and said, “I love you.”

Then I noticed the wrinkles blossoming around my eyes.

I saw what could have been a path of bad times inside my mind.

Instead, I continued to wear the same smile and repeated, “I love you.”


Before my teenage b-days, I collected dolls.




G.I. Joe.

No more.


For my 21st birthday, I visited Las Vegas.

The trip was a solo mission where I took nothing but the suit I wore along with a few filled pockets.

I had a good time.

Then I had a bad time.

These are the epic times.


This is what my birthdays look like as I keep aging out.

I still wonder what my original party looked like.

I keep hoping I’ll remember it someday.

In the meantime, I am aging out.

It’s an art I’m truly about.