I hate birthdays. I hate birthday parties. I hate them. I don't know what it is, anybody's only got to come wafting near me with a piece of cake with a candle on and I break out in hives.
Cockroaches and socialites are the only things that can stay up all night and eat anything.
The circle of the return to birth can only remain open, but this is a chance, a sign of life, and a wound.