Happy birthday to me.

Just like every year since I can hardly remember when, the only people who remembered about my birthday were my parents in Russia. It's not normal, is it? In 27 years of my life I am sort of used to being alone. I had some friends and some social groups back in Russia, until I was forced out by political repression, but I was hardly ever a very social type. Asperger syndrome, especially in uncared and untreated cases, doesn't really help it. I probably should have already been used to people never caring much about me, if at all.

Nevertheless, there's at least one day of the year when I feel desperately lonely, neglected and depressed - that is, my birthday. It is this day when the difference between socially normal people and myself becomes painfully obvious. Normal people may have problems, quarrels, failed relationships and all kinds of issues with the society, but at least they can gather some friends and have a birthday party. I can only celebrate by buying myself some sweets and drinking tea by my computer.

If you've never been in such a situation, it might not seem like a big deal to you, but believe me - it is really, really painful. Sometimes I have those dreams of being frozen into a piece of ice drifting endlessly through space. I don't think I can live like this much longer, probably I'll just kill myself, or somebody else, or somebody else and then myself...