It was my birthday the other day. Lots of friends and even people I didn't know gathered all over to celebrate it. I thought it was touching. There were pictures and displays and even stage plays depicting my birth. They had written songs about it and everything. It was really something.
Odd thing, though. When I arrived on the day of the celebration, no one seemed to notice. No one was paying attention. No "Happy birthday to you" sung to me. I noticed the decorations were strange. I mean, colorful and all, but ... not much at all to do with me. Or birthdays. Mostly winter, I think. There were a few signs with my name on them, but mostly it was not about me at all. Nor could they be bothered to visit my house on this particular day ... of my birthday.
Lots of good food, I suppose -- I didn't get to taste any and they didn't actually have me in mind when they did. Lots of people were cheerful. Others were drunk. Others were sad. Very, very few even thought of me.
Then the gifts came out. How nice! Wait. All the guests were giving gifts to all the guests. Not a one for me. Not a single one.
Very strange birthday party for me. But, then, it's been going on for some years now. And I keep attending, even though fewer and fewer recognize it. In fact, in some places it is actually forbidden to mention me around the time of my own birthday. I'm just wondering why it is that my true friends and family participate in this travesty of worship. I feel sorry for anyone else who was born on Christmas. Hasn't worked out so well for me.
Who am I?