Here’s a birthday card I drew for my fiancee. I drew it at work, so I technically got paid for it.

I offer a service where I tell people if their birthday is pointless. Here’s how it works: someone contacts me, tells me what age they are going to be and I tell them if their birthday is pointless. There are some mitigating factors—too miniscule and boring to go into here—but my accuracy is remarkably high. I’m not asking to be celebrated for this; I consider it part of my duty as a citizen of the world. We all need to give back what we can.

Last year, my mother threw me a 30^th birthday party. It was mutually beneficial in that she wanted to throw me a party (I banned them after 18) and I needed an iPhone. So just like she talked me into going to my high school graduation with the promise of a card filled with twenties, I let the market dictate my morals and had a party. I’m fine with that.

Last week, I turned 31 which—for those playing the home game—is pointless. Because of this, I had no party nor cake. I went to see Godzilla, but I would’ve seen Godzilla no matter whose birthday it was.

Despite the overall joy of watching monsters fight for my amusement, the pointlessness of 31 weighed heavily on me. Turning 30 had little effect on me, nor had turning any other age since 18, so this was unexpected.

At first, I thought it was because it’s been 31 years and I still can’t get my shit together. Seriously, it’s all over the place. But I’ve made a lot of small steps towards big things and my general fuck-upery has never bothered me before. That couldn’t be it.

It wasn’t until a few days later, thinking about Godzilla, that it hit me. I feel like I have a lot in common with Godzilla: we both like to swim, we wake up cranky and sometimes we have radioactive breath. But more than that, we’re both tired. Sure, he fucked up both those MUTOs and found the strength to let out a mighty roar while holding a severed head as a trophy, but he needed a nap after (and during…and who knows how long he’d been sleeping before).

For me, having a birthday is similar to the feeling of having to fight a monster on the streets of San Francisco. Not the actual process of fighting the monster—that’s different. I mean the idea that the monster is out there and I have to get off my ass and fight him.

And then after I kicked one ass, a second one shows up.

I used up all my energy getting to the finish line and then I find out it was only a check point. It’s not that I won’t keep going or even that I don’t want to keep going, just that I didn’t expect to, so now I have to come up with a whole new plan of attack. That’s the feeling of turning 31: this shit never ends.

You know, that’s kind of a downer. I don’t want to make it sound like I wrote this while crying and listening to the Cure, so let me try that again.

Life is short, but only in retrospect.

That sounds about right.

But enough about me. As a special bonus, please enjoy this chart covering your first 40 birthdays and their significance.