I inherently dislike my own birthdays as they serve primarily as a gentle reminder that I will at some point not exist. This fact scares me no-end despite the many hours a day I put aside to contemplate it. Fortunately these hours coincide roughly with the many hours I naturally put aside for contemplating issues of metaphysical scale anyway, so my existential calendar is not entirely full...
This interval is a retrospective on My Super Sweet 16, mainly because - and don't be coy - we can all relate. I mean who hasn't turned their face to the gold ceiling fan, tears streaming down flushed cheeks, and collapsed to the floor whilst their mother wails: "Don't give up hope! This will be ok, we will get you that hot air balloon entrance."
The constant anxiety of what soap opera dramas awaited me at university didn't exactly help matters. I've been considering selling the movie rights of my university life to Universal Studios, on the grounds that I will be played by Audrey Tautou (she'll have to wear seven inch heels) and that The Killers must be used in the opening sequence.
One thing is for sure - saying thank you is a nice thing to do. It makes you feel good, and makes the receiver feel valued. We may not subscribe to the hand written parchments of old, with ruler straight lines and wafty words of gratitude penned from inky quills, but we do still subscribe to basics of liking to give and liking to be thanked.