I went with – “Thanks for the birthday wishes chums.”

Replacing what I meant – Thanks for the birthday messages, blah, blah, blah.

Or
– Thanks for the birthday messages, had some really strong opiates to celebrate.
– Thanks for the birthday messages, got in a right state, though clearly I wasn’t head of state else the pigs would have been called, to posthumously felate me.
– Thanks for the birthday wishes, fucked a dead pigs head to celebrate.

Perhaps a rap would have worked
-Thanks for the birthday wishes, dreams like dishes.
Dirty and broken, I was hopin’
to celebrate ala head of state
kill a pig and masturbate.
Good times entails my genitals in entrails and opiates,
high as a prime minister gets.
Blah Blah Blah go your messages,
troubling that facebook is,
the only reason you remebered kids.
Am I still your friend beyond this shit?
Or is this as close as we get?

I sound angry but I’m not,
only frustrated in the morning when your notification
is bongin like green nights with moroccan.
“Fuckin…”
“Who is that again?”
I remember the name but I don’t wish them a happy birthday.
Not fuck them in the worst way, just
“WHO is that?”
But now it’s my birthday, I’m lost for words literally.
I remember you all clearly but you didn’t think of me dearly enough to type some words in a box.
Fuck sake man.
Might start wishing every cunt happy birthday, so when rolls up to the big day I’ll have a timeline like history class, lining up to kiss my ass.
“Happy Birthday Mr Hummels, we all fucking love you.”
“Thanks, World. I’m very appreciative of you.”

Perhaps a statistic
-(50/767) = Thanks for the birthday wishes all 6.51%.

These would probably have been great ways to express my gratitude.
Of course, the neuroses underlying the above doesn’t come from the fact that few people messaged me on my birthday, or the fact that in real life I have few companions. (I am comfortable with that, the friends I do have are special and spread far and wide, similar to a certain dead pigs mouth.) The neuroses come from the process of aging itself. I am officially a quarter of a century old, a rather daunting fact. The fact that social media harries and drives this fact home is perhaps not welcomed. Every morning I wake to some long forgotten names random benchmark. It is the first of my morning annoyances. (I should disable notifications.) But now when I am that benchmark, sorry, random name with a bench mark, ( I will likely never be the benchmark) I yearn for the messages to tumble in. I want my special day to be special. No I don’t. I want to get blind drunk and forget about aging. I want to drink into a roughly amnesic state until I genuinely believe I have achieved. I do not want to be reminded that I have only 6.51% friends.

I wonder how life would have turned out had I posted an alternate.
Not worth thinking about I suppose.

Mr Hummels