Ed, hey Ed

Facebook birthday reminders are one of the most jerky features of the site; the obligation to issue sincere type greetings to people you don't know well enough or may have little history to draw back from, or don't want to wish a happy birthday to for whatever reason (wears pink polos) (although this was not the case yesterday - to Ed, who I hope is reading this now, another Happy Birthday to you! I really did hope it was fantastic, you smiled + got drunk + laid or even better, got a blow job, because who doesn't love a fucking blow job SCORE).
I wish people almost every day, who I would otherwise never talk to, a Happy Birthday, simply because I KNOW that THEY KNOW, that I KNOW their birthday is occurring. Facebook keeps us all up to date, so we can further sloth through life devoting those now non-dedicated cerebral files to Snooki's favorite foods and various cocktail recipes. Balls. I detest it. I just don't care, you are older, I am older, way to go, biology is doing that for us all on it's own, do you want a cookie, cause I got cookies, have a fucking cookie.

If you are my friend (not even a close friend), you are having a party, I am invited and we are going out for drinks, I will buy you shots till you puke if thats how you are doing it up this year. If you are a guy, I will laugh at you and take photos; a girl, I will hold your hair.
If you are my byproduct, some place in the birthing canal, a sealed in angels tears irreversible pact was made that I must celebrate this uterine exploding, vagina expanding moment until the day I die (but if you think for a moment, I am not going to remind you of my stretch marks and the agonizing pain you put me through then and everyday after that along with your gift of an iPod Touch, birthday cake and dinner, you truly have not been paying attention, kid. That shit hurt, and you need to be reminded of the pact YOU signed, which allows me to verbally remind you of this at every instance I desire, until the end of time, glad we cleared that up) and I am chill with this. Holla, self-high five, fist bump - what are you like, 15 now - jesus, where's the bourbon.

My neighbors father, who once came by my driveway to buy lemonade from my kids little "let's make some candy money" stand and then saw fit to not only find me on facebook (creepy) but add me as a contact (creepier), well, I now have to wish this mysterious person Happy Birthday or feel the wretched pangs of guilt for not (I don't feel guilty) BECAUSE: I KNOW that THEY KNOW, that I KNOW.
Fuck me.

So yesterday, I facebook-ed a birthday greeting to a "friend" (Ed, hey Ed), who I actually knew when I was a little kid. Oh my god, he was the cutest little kid in the whole world, hands down adorable, pinch some CHEEKS. I think either his mother babysat me, or my mom babysat him, for all I know, our parents were cocaine kingpins and we just happened to see each other on drug deals (I once made up an entire backstory for a friend that included adoptions and his parents dying in a car crash that was completely untrue, so I don't know, I can't always trust my own memory, it does what it wants). What I do know for sure, is that we were somehow hanging out as little kids and we also attended the same schools together though we didn't socialize much once older. The sum of these memories is enough to qualify said person (Ed, hey Ed) for a non forced birthday greeting, from me to him, without personal guilt or hatred for the process, I am happy to do so, bursting with fruit flavor - FACT. We might not be "friends" but I would totally buy this Kat a beer in a heartbeat, if we were in a beer establishment, at the same instance, Hazy Childhood Life *Surprise* oh my fucking god I flashed you my vagina when I was four, I'm sure of it, how the fuck are you.

And here, my good people, was the open online comment exchange, which I, face palmed myself for (twice):

Comment: ...and a very happy birthday to you...
Ed: I saw you at Jax weeks ago and am still pissed at myself for not saying Hello. Idiot.
Me: We are up there quite often - say hello next time. I don't bite (hard).
Ed: Yikes. Okay.

Post Mania Analysis (hubby did finally return last night, restoring balance to the universe, with a delightful 2am wake-up, thank you love, SO MUCH FUCKING BETTER, all hail his majesty's cocks return):
I was mildly 'aw' about that fact he did not say hello having seen me out but really he is by no means an idiot for not having done so. I would find it pleasantly amusing if one day having recognized me he saw fit to, though these things keep happening to me, seriously, where someone recognizes me in public, says nothing, sends me a facebook message later saying they wished they had, a psychotic complex growing inside my head that I either look totally unapproachable (WTF) or I smell like pee.
The "bite" portion of the comment, being the cheeky monkey (no internet half off deal, live monkeys here) that I am, would have been cheeky under afore mentioned forced birthday greeting circumstances, but under these circumstances, I WASN'T being cheeky and all but immediately regretted typing it for the sole appearance of being fake cheeky, which is just FAIL. My mind had been moving fast and I thought about the last time I was up at Jax, in which I was full blown raging eat live babies angry and this picture popped into my head, of me literally chomping him like a rabid dog had he approached with anything but food or beer. I was amused with the thought but of course did not share it in FULL because: (1) I haven't seen this person in years and that would just be insanely strange of me (yes, sometimes I do actually think before I act: .0499% of the time) (2) iPhone typing drives me nuts so I tend to limit it and (3) I don't bite hard but I DO bite, I wasn't being jokey jokey at all, it was knowledge he might need to know about me, sort of kind of (it isn't). I bite my husband all the time, sometimes it leaves marks, sometimes not. I bite the kids, they bite me, when my husband jokes that I was raised by wolves, sometimes I imagine this might be truer than he thinks and just MAYBE I have created my OWN backstory and now run around believing it and sharing it with all of you, on a daily basis (grain of salt, grain. of. salt.).

So I shouldn't have even written this as a reply to him, because now he might think (Ed, hey Ed, I hope you not only made it to the end of this blog post, but you do not actually think what I am about to type outside of these parenthesis) I am this mentally retarded child-adult, who writes stupid comments to people on facebook in order to appear cute-sy or completely unlike the vile, sailor mouthed fucking snake bitch (who also enjoys origami, scrabble, Belgium Sour Ales, and creating the occasional piece of artwork), that I truly am.

*chews gum*

Ed is totally never gonna say hello to me, ever.
It's all facebook's fault.
I seriously must smell like pee.

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