I cry on my birthday every year. Something about organised fun brings out the despair.

Birthdays exist in a liminal space, somewhere between the most fun day of the year and the most disappointing.

Every year I forget how much I hated the last one and plan another big party, convincing myself this time will actually be fun.

It never is, and I always cry.

Maybe next year I’ll throw a better party.

You’re all invited.