I forget everybody’s birthday.
I mean, I know mine. And my brother’s, and my dad’s, and my dog’s. But I CANNOT seem to remember any of my friends’ birthdays, and I haven’t quite figured out if my mother’s is the 24th or the 26th. How sad is that?
This year, I finally accepted the fact that I will never be good with birthdays, and instead of worrying about being on time and forgetting and being late and discombobulated, I just decided that I would pick a date, declare it the Collective Birthday, and give everyone presents then.
Why am I telling you this? Because it’s interesting – to me at least – and an important part of my personality. Also because it has to do with writing. Namely, the presents.
I thought it would be a good idea to write little stories or screenplays – short ones – for my friends. I was aiming for one each, so five total. This all sounded good in theory, but the collective birthday is tomorrow and I’ve only finished one. Haha. I am such a bad procrastinator.
Even this is procrastination. So bye, while I scramble like mad to finish all of this.