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TWO STORIES

ONE

I have always hated my birthday. Because if you are born on December the 23rd, you know that you’re an asshole, and you knew it since you were a kid, like I was in this picture. Hey, don’t think that people will ever understand how much you HATE your birthday: my parents used to send THIS PIC as a Christmas card to my family and friends. They did it every year, until I went to college. Do I look HAPPY and CHRISTMASSY in this pic? Really?? I was going nuts. To me it’s like a never ending story.

Some weeks ago I went to visit an old aunt of mine. It was a long time since we last met, so we had lunch together. The weather was so nice and sunny, so we were sitting on the porch instead of staying inside. “You’ll always be a child to me”, she told me softly after we had a slice of cake – she baked me a cake! I love her! Then, she added: “I will always remember you as the little HAPPY chubby baby SMILING in that picture your parents used to send me for Christmas… Do you remember that lovely picture?”.

Plus, she asked me when my birthday was, because she couldn’t remember it.

I feel so alone. And misunderstood, too.

I hate my birthday and I always will. First because nobody remembers it. When I was a kid my schoolmates never said “happy birthday” to me, because school was out for Christmas holiday. And second… what about the presents? My family was always like: “Honey, this present is for you: Christmas and birthday all-in-one!”.

Going back to the pic: can you guess the gift I’m about to unwrap? SOCKS.

Story by Manuela Pinetti

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