Yesterday was my birthday.

Happy birthday, me.

It’s always a surprise when people remember my birthday. I almost never mention it. I mean, it just seems so pointless.

In any case, four friends called me.

All while I was asleep. Imagine that.

“Happy Birthday Phil,” one of them said.

“[incomprehensible mumbling] mmph-irrthday? [groan] mmphto ytoo?”

“Not my birthday. Yours,” she clarified, “Were you sleeping?”

“No,” I lied.

“Well happy birthday, then.”

“[incomprehensible grumbling] mmph–tastic, we’ve circled the sun again.”

“It’s your birthday. It’s an excuse to be happy. Stop being so grumpy.”

I’m such a grouch. Even on my birthday.

It was all very sweet, though I’m not sure why all four of them were girls — I wonder if girls are just naturally more attentive towards these things.

One of them even brought over this beautifully wrapped present for me, complete with lavender silk bow and expensive wrapping paper.

Shocked — the only thing I could do was give her a peck on the cheek and an awkward hug.

I’m a misanthropic, overworked grouch. But I have friends.

Friends I don’t deserve.

I bet they’ll realize it one day. And then I’ll still be a mean grouch, but without any friends.