To the Irish, people on this day say, "lá fhéile Pádraig sona dhuit." To the British, people don't say much; they've all taken the excuse to drink black beer and pass out quietly on the streets of London. To Beano readers, it's Dennis the Menace's birthday.
To me, it's my birthday. People say "happy birthday" to me.
I spend the morning with my girlfriend, and then go for lunch with my family, which is both delicious and cost-effective. The afternoon consists of a trip to IKEA (?) and playing a game with my sister. The game involves naming Harry Potter characters until we can't think of any more. We'd likely still be doing it had I not decided to go home.
My initial thought was that, at some point today, I'd have a birthday wank. A present to myself in the form of an orgasm. Self-induced, like. I have my computer, I have my porn, and I have one of those scary-looking pneumatic drill emulators in the form on an Autoblow 2 that I kind of want to try out. I also have my imagination, and my hand, both essential tools in the act.
I assume the position in front of my computer...
Two and a half hours later. I have spent the entire time singing at maximum volume to whatever tunes come up when I open Windows Media Player.
You see, sometimes I realise that it's not always constant orgasms that I need for satisfaction. Singing makes me happy too. It's the other thing I did for years when I genuinely had nothing else to do (and even when I did).
I am a sexual person, but not generally a happy one. It's nice to be reminded that, every now and again, I don't need to be acting sexually to be happy.
Happy birthday, songboy.