Today is my birthday, and all I want to do is go home and crawl under the blankets and sleep this day into tomorrow, and the day after, and the days after that.  But I can’t. Unfortunately. And really this day is no different than the last 143 days (that’s a random number I pulled off the top of my head), it’s no different than my birthday last year either.  I wasn’t celebrating it with Voldemort (or the person who’s name we cannot say, fittingly though it also starts with a V), we’d had an argument and he decided that the only option for him was to delete me from his life, and I thought, foolishly, then that when my birthday came around he would at least acknowledge the presence I had been in his life and regardless of his anger towards me in that moment, he would still reach out to me and wish me a happy birthday, at the very least, even if he didn’t really mean it, even if he was angry as hell, even if.  And he didn’t.  Today is just another reminder of how little importance I had in his life, and it shouldn’t matter, because it’s done and over with. And I should be happy that I don’t need to put up with his bullshit anymore.  And I am. Except that it’s also a reminder that while I was so unimportant to him, he was the complete opposite to me. And that stings. A lot. I should be happy and celebrating the new stories, the new experiences, the new memories, especially today, but I just can’t find it in me to do that.  So instead I’m going to throw myself into work and maybe a couple of glasses of wine (a really expensive one) and look forward to tomorrow.