The best day of my life happened when I turned 13 and I walked into my birthday party late and saw all of my friends waiting for me at the roller skating rink (don't @ me, it was the 80's). It snowed hard the previous day, so hard that we were let out of school early. So I showed up late due to poor driving conditions but they were all there, it was the last time I ever felt that loved. I wish I had appreciated it more, seeing all of those lovely faces who were happy to see me. Me.
Thirty three years later and I'm jealous every time I see someone walk into a bar or restaurant and meet up with a waiting crowd. Around fifteen years ago, my parents graciously took me out to restaurant for my birthday that I really wanted to try. It was just the three of us and while we were seated waiting for our food, a group of people around my age came in and just sat at the bar and we later joined by a few more people. They laughed and seemed to be having a great time. I let their joy ruin my birthday meal because I wanted that so badly, to have a group of people who were just mine. Not friends of my family, not my family. Mine. People who liked me for me and wanted to spend time with me. Me. I say that a lot. Even more so because I don't have we to replace it. I felt like a brat who couldn't even enjoy a nice meal without allowing something so trivial to ruin it. I thought back to that birthday so long ago and the simple joy I felt at having those people. Mine. My friends. So far in the past. I hate that I'm this way, I hate the piteous tone of my posts. I hate that my happiest day was one that most of the people who made it so great for me have more than likely forgotten. I hate that I have been forgotten by most of the people I've known and that there is little hope for me becoming memorable to anyone else.
But I love that day. I miss it. I miss them. They were mine for a little while.