Another fucking birthday. 21 today. Not like anyone gives a shit. Spent the last of my money on a lukewarm coffee and a stale donut from the gas station. The cashier wouldn’t even look me in the eye—guess I’m too much of a mess even for basic human decency. But hey, at least the rain held off long enough for me to jerk off behind the dumpster without getting soaked. Yeah, real romantic. Just me, my fingers, and the fantasy of someone actually wanting me for more than a quick fuck in an alley. Not that I’d believe them if they said it. Everyone lies. Still, can’t help wondering what it’d be like to have someone’s hands on me without expecting something in return. To feel warm skin instead of concrete. Fuck, I’d even take awkward birthday sex at this point—just so I could pretend, for five minutes, that I’m not completely invisible. But whatever. Happy birthday to me. Here’s to another year of surviving shit nobody should have to.