I am probably the only woman in the world who will cry about her upcoming birthday, plan it two months in advance and warn her friends that we’re celebrating on a Monday because I will get better turn-out that way due to schedules. *Shrugs*

The thing is—I believe in celebrating birthdays.

I get offended when the people I love try to downplay them. “It’s just another day, blah, blah, blah…”

No, mother fucker. Your parents had sex, by some God-given miracle you were conceived, we crossed paths and now here we are and you mean something to me.

I’m glad you’re alive. I will throw confetti in your face while I pour shots.

Everyone I know is experiencing their own battles. We can all agree that adulting sucks. The growing pains are perpetual. It’s a constant struggle, even when you’re a success on paper. Shit is constantly happening and if it isn’t—you’re probably paranoid about when the next storm is about to hit. It’s real.

I’ve found my that my coping mechanism of being an adult is celebrating. Yep, coping mechanism. I find ways celebrate the positives, the anniversaries and the victories. The reasons range from silly to serious and birthdays are high on the importance scale.

So we’re going to celebrate (or acknowledge it properly), cause life is alway a blessing.

…and my life is pretty freakin’ awesome.