At some point during your tenure as a cube slave, you will inevitably have to work on your birthday. Maybe because your workplace isn’t humane enough to give you the day off or because you’d rather use your vacation time for an actual vacation.
Whatever the circumstances that lead you to sitting in front of your computer with a series of pathetic “Happy Birthday” balloons and banners surrounding you, you will most assuredly end up silent crying at the thought of how many years have passed you by–and how many more are going to–just welded there to the seat that seems to cause office booty on contact.
And then the silent tears will continue to flow in the bathroom of the shitty Midtown bar where your co-workers, who you hate, force you to go for a “birthday happy hour.” And though you will try to push aside the reassessment of your life after another day spent working at a job you hate, you won’t be able to purge yourself of this birthday disease for at least another two weeks.