Ghostbusted On My Birthday.

Typical really. It comes but just once a year. A day entirely devoted to you in celebration of your illustrious birth. For me that day was yesterday. How should one commemorate such an occasion? A nice meal with friends and family? A night of excessive drinking and childish masculine festivities? Or an entire day bed ridden and exhausted because of some degenerative infection that specifically targets my metabolism! Yes I had to savour my one solitary day of tolerated selfishness in the confines of my spare room, enduring the sinuous constraints of back ache that made every conceivable posture more painfully elongated than a Newcastle United sacking. I was drinking enough fluids to replenish a Saharan river, eating biscuits when my stomach allowed and all of this while I celebrated my Birthday in a more modest (lonely) capacity. Obviously I couldn’t risk my pregnant girlfriend contracting this vicious malady that would know doubt kill a lesser mortal than myself, but when I said I didn’t really want to do anything for my Birthday this isn’t quite what I had in mind? I was so hopelessly isolated on my birthday that I had to enter my birth date into my Twitter account just to receive some humble recognition of the day. “Oh look, balloons!”

Personally I identify the new Ghostbusters trailer as the originator of this grotesque visitation. No honestly, I am that stupid! There is a direct correlation between watching the new Ghostbusters trailer and my own aggressive illness, one symptomatic of a viral infection, curtailing my functions and even my ability to utilise such solidarity time to game. Yes the Ghostbusters trailer was so bad it made me violently sick on my Birthday! But I’m made of sterner stuff than most. Bred of pragmatic conviction, that even despite my periods of rasping and wheezing, and with a resolve and natural deterrent to such trivial microscopic terrorists. Despite being incarcerated alone, gasping, isolated (is that applied thick enough for you yet?) my brain still functioned with the capacity to hate that damnable trailer, or more accurately Paul Feig. So to you Sir I say this: thank you for ruining the one day of the year I’m actively encouraged to play games. I’ve never been more fatigued yet restless in my entire life. You have utilised you’re considerable position to orchestrate you’re own ingenious artifice by abusing 32 years of nostalgia with such careless consideration to the people that uphold such instances of sentiment, to promote and flaunt you’re heretic misunderstanding of what made Ghostbusters such a captivating cultural phenomenon. You also made it impossible for me to relax, sleep or even fart for fear of, let’s say a “full particle reversal”. You haven’t raped my childhood like some idiots have expressed, that’s just stupid. But you have belittled it as far as I can tell. Congratulations though for you have at the very least sanctioned a trailer that will be little more than a footnote in the annals of “What the hell were they thinking?!” Alongside Tim Burton’s Planet Of The Apes, Lindsey Lohan telling her Twitter followers that positivity can prevent hurricanes, people who insist on wearing socks with sandals, this tattoo of a cat on this man’s stomach and Prince Harry wearing that Nazi costume for a Halloween party.

By now you’ve probably realised that this entire article was a desperate ruse to attract attention to my belated birthday, to which I’ll gladly accept any words of salutations, concern or encouragement. But in my defence I do attribute this illness as a direct result of Paul Feig’s incompetent production team. I mean it’s certainly nothing to do with my dietary proclivities that’s for sure.