This is what I wrote last year; this year I am too depressed about the event described below to think of anything new to say about it. Next year I think I will be positively suicidal.

26 JULY 1958: As a general rule, I dislike birthdays; I have nothing against those who enjoy this sort of thing; they are certainly entitled to their opinion, but I still dislike birthdays, and I especially dislike birthdays when the birthday in question is my own. I guess I wouldn’t mind birthdays so much if they stayed they were when you were a kid. Kids can’t wait for birthdays; it’s their own very special holiday and there are cakes and games and parties and presents and whole slews of other good things happening, and best of all, it's all for them. I still remember my fifth birthday party; half the neighborhood showed up for cake and ice cream, the other half turned up for the free liquor, and my father and my Uncle Mickey got drunk and tried to beat each other’s brains out over something that happened in 1951. That was a great party, but the thing of it is, after you’ve accumulated more than a few birthdays, the day seems less a commemoration of your arrival here on Spaceship Earth than it is a reminder that you are now officially another year closer to becoming a protein source for invertebrates.