One has to wonder, why do we celebrate our birthdays? We didn't celebrate them when we were actually born - we were too busy doing something else at the time. And if we actually remembered what it was like, the memory would probably be so traumatic that we wouldn't be celebrating it, anyway.
Birthdays, birthdays, birthdays. You know, as someone* once said, being born is really like dying, in reverse. First you're not there, and then you are. Which gives me an idea. What if, instead of celebrating our birth every year, we celebrated our death? I mean, we might as well celebrate it, while we've still got time. It'll give us something to do, rather than being shit-scared about the prospect. Think about it: instead of actually missing out on our own funerals, we'd get to go along, too.
Naturally, we don't know when we're going to die - which is kind of the whole point. Holding our own funeral would be an excellent excuse to get drunk all day, every day. You know, just in case.
Then again, maybe I'll just return to my mother's womb. Nice and safe; no fear of dying there. I'll just call Mum up in a second ...
The womb's a fine and private place
But none, I think, do there embrace ...
What do you think?
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