Happy birthday to me.

Me.

Thunderboy.

Andrew.

Thomas.

However, the celebratory cries of my friends, family, and distant cousins I pay no mind to seemed to suggest otherwise. It seemed as though they had pronounced ‘Thunderboy’ incorrect that year.

“Happy Birthday, Todd!” They all shouted.

Where was I, you ask?

Why, in the car of course! Because god knows, babies just love to be left in their mother’s nine seat minivan in the baking summer heat, while the rest of their family enjoys a cornucopia of fatty foods.

Even as I child I knew this was an injustice.

A complete and utter violation of my right to overindulge myself!

I was growing older by the minute, my little brain thought, these privileges were short lived!

I’m sure Todd stuffed his fat little face that day.

I’m sure that his little ducky bib was stained with all of the remnants of what I was once promised to receive, what I was denied, and what I am still denied to this day.

Because, according to Todd, it’s no longer cute to be fat.