Why You Hate Me... heehee
I shouldn't have to address this.
It should be normal. It should be run-of-the-mill. It should be a fundamental part of a deeply-held belief system, like not denying your faith or not consuming high fructose corn syrup. Instead it's a railroaded fanatic offshoot of dangerous sedition with an audience of rolled eyes and crooked fingers.
Birthday. A fascinating word. The connotations would be even more fascinating, if we could peer into the minds of our peers. Let's break it down a bit though.
Let's see, I identify TWO words in that one, actually joined together: BIRTH, and DAY. Look at that! I guess it would have to do, then, with the day on which you were given birth to: born. I was born twice. Let's identify the most important of those two births, so we can set some kind of a solid.
Birth number one: popping out of an internal organ, to begin the decay.
Birth number two: Eternal spiritual rebirth (becoming an 'amaranthine' of sorts).
I'm gonna go with number two here.
My parents can't remember the day I was reborn on. Shucks. What to do...? I know! Let's fix our own! Like Christmas or Easter, neither of which we know the actual day of the month for. It's a Christian tradition, apparently, to celebrate blind. Also known as... faith! So we do an estimate sort of thing, just to peg a day on it (since it WAS a very important, celebratory occasion). Say--February 14th, the first random date that pops into my mind. My new birthday. February the 14th. I like it. It has a nice ring to it. The 14th of February.
Are you beginning to empathize? Can YOUR parents remember YOUR true re-birthday? If not, take a moment to decide on one now, and together let us pass on our heritage to the cold, lost world.
But for Flatlanders, well, we'll just stick with August 27th.
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