Everyone shut the fuck up, This is my fucking birthday

It’s my birthday, so go fuck yourself.

Your parents are weirdos, in the best possible way. They do not celebrate birthdays; never in your life have you received a present on the tenth of December. Instead, you are given books on the days that their authors were born.

Am I dying, or is this my birthday?

We were all born on days when too many people died in terrible ways, but you still have to call it a birthday.

The significance of celebrating my birthday is just to thank God that I added another year. I am alive, hale and hearty. Also, to thank Him for rewarding my career bountifully. I celebrate my birthday every year.

April 21. My birthday — I am told the fifty-seventh, and yet I feel only a boy. Must make haste and get my work done ere the night falls. Made an excursion with the babes to Mount Wanda.

You have no birthday because you have always lived; you were never born, and never will die. You are not the child of the people you call mother and father, but their fellow-adventurer on a bright journey to understand the things that are.

On my last birthday I was ninety-three years old. That is not young, of course. In fact, it is older than ninety. But age is a relative matter. If you continue to work and to absorb the beauty in the world about you, you find that age does not necessarily mean getting old. At least, not in the ordinary sense. I feel many things more intensely than ever before, and for me life grows more fascinating.

The event happened on my birthday. I don’t remember the date, I only know it was my birthday because there was no cake or presents.

Most of us can remember a time when a birthday — especially if it was one's own — brightened the world as if a second sun had risen.

It was her birthday. She thought, I am always unhappy on this day.

"I mean, what is an un-birthday present?"
A present given when it isn't your birthday, of course."
Alice considered a little. "I like birthday presents best," she said at last.
You don't know what you're talking about!" cried Humpty Dumpty. "How many days are there in a year?"
Three hundred and sixty-five," said Alice.
And how many birthdays have you?"
One.

I don’t like to celebrate my birthday, because I don’t like taking credit for others’ work — in this case, my mom and dad. Or possibly my mom and the mailman.