Birthdays are my least favorite days of the year. Since there are birthdays on everyday of the year that would mean I hate everyday of the year. But if I had to pick one day to put on a pedestal and hate above all others it would hands down be my own birthday. Like many people, I presume, I had birthday parties when I was younger. They weren’t great but I didn’t complain. My family never had any money so the parties were never spectacular and usually took place in my yard with the main attraction being a piñata filled with cheap candy, only half of which was edible. I never got great presents but I usually got stuff I liked. My particular favorite year was when I received deodorant and a twelve pack of Coke – It was a banner birthday at the Trujillo house. I never did get that pony I wanted though. Instead a got a different pony, but it wasn’t the one with white spots like I wanted.
My paragraphs are usually long so I made that first one as short as I possibly could and now I’m explaining at the beginning of this second paragraph why I did. I think many people are displeased with reading long paragraphs.
You’ve probably heard me say before that I wish no one knew when my birthday was so it couldn’t be celebrated, not that it’s celebrated anymore anyway. Me – I’m not going to write “I” you stupid fucking microsoft word so quit fucking underlining “Me” with a green line you piece of shit – and my family might go out somewhere cheap to eat, but we’re on a budget this year so cheap might be a little bit too expansive. But anyway, I’ve come to the point where I must wonder why I don’t enjoy my birthday and would prefer not to celebrate it, if in fact that is what I would prefer. My young birthdays were always enjoyable but I didn’t much care for the attention. As I got older I hated the attention even more, which is weird because I love attention, but here’s the thing, I only love attention when I think I deserve attention, and I don’t think a birthday is suitable to be deemed deserved-attention worthy. I mean what’s the big deal? I’m just turning another year older. It’s like congratulations you’ve survived another year, now have some cake even though you prefer pie while we sing off key to you. I think the lack of love for cake and the hating of being song to poorly is why most people turn to drinking on their birthday. So let’s just replace the cake with a big punch bowl of alcohol, and replace the bad singing with mute strippers. That’s right the strippers can’t talk. Why? Because they’re all annoying. But I’m avoiding the whole point of writing this aren’t I? I still haven’t figured out why I hate my birthday so much.
It’s the undeserved attention. It’s gotta be. I feel completely awkward and ridiculous when I’m receiving attention. Or am I? I remember once in a high school football game I got an interception and returned it for a touchdown and when I went to school on Monday this girl Ruth was like, “I heard you got a touchdown on Friday, good job.” And on the outside I was like whatever, shut up bitch (or something to that extent) but on the inside I was like, ‘oh my God this gorgeous girl is paying attention to me I think I’m going to wet myself which is really inconvenient because she’s paying attention to me and I especially don’t want to wet myself in front of her.’ Well actually I was thinking how in the hell did she know I got a touchdown because the only people at the game were my football team and six hundred black teenagers waiting for their homecoming dance to start. But all in all it felt good to get attention from that chick, and I don’t think it was just because she was an attractive chick, I think it was mostly because I hadn’t told her I had scored a touchdown and she had went out of her way on her own to give me a metaphorical pat on the back. I really hate the people who go searching for complements. Who whenever they do something good go tell a bunch of people. And I think that’s why I hate birthdays. Because it’s like look at me I did absolutely nothing but give me presents and cake and sing to me, your terrible singing voices boost my ego. I am that guy, just not on the outside. That guy is inside of me, really, really deep inside me (you might want to rephrase that) no. On that outside I’m like, ‘fuck all of you guys I don’t want your attention.’ But on the inside I’m like, ‘please everybody look at me, I’m so special, please give me your full attention, I need love damn it.’ It’s sad really.
I realized this because I recently woke up on my birthday and I wanted to start it off good, real fucking good because all of my birthdays go not so well. So I was like fuck that this year will be different. So I woke up around midnight and around one I decided to call this girl I happen to enjoy talking to because she laughs at my penis humor. Or she’s laughing at the fact that I have a small penis. I can’t really figure out which but frankly I’m getting laughs and that will help get me through another year. So I called her even though earlier in the year I decided not to call her. Why? Well because I figure if she wants to talk to me she’ll just call me, so I don’t want to annoy her by calling her when she doesn’t want to talk to me, which I presume is always. And also every time I call her it never goes good. When she calls me it goes okay, but when I call her my world gets fucked. So I called her wanting to start my day off good and of course she picks up the phone and she’s in bed trying to sleep. So we talk for like a minute and a half and then she’s off to bed and she says she’ll call me if she can’t get to sleep. So I say fine hoping she won’t be able to get to sleep and like an hour and a half later she gets online and we talk there. Not exactly what I wanted but it’s my birthday so why should I get what I want? So we talked and all of the sudden I start trying to tell her it’s my birthday, but I do it in kinds of riddles, but not hard riddles. Like I said, “I can’t wait for tomorrow because the day after my birthday is always good,” which is true, but she didn’t make the connection that saying that meant today was my birthday. So eventually I just straight up told her it was my birthday, but then she thought I was lying. It took me forever to convince her it was my birthday and it took a lot out of me. Like really, it took a lot out of me emotionally. And that’s when I started thinking why do I even care if she knows it’s my birthday or not? And I think I don’t. But I do, I care a lot. I want attention, and not just from her, from everybody – well not everybody, you can fuck off Lance Richards, whoever the fuck you are. But I’m doing all this work to try and tell her it’s my birthday for what? So she can say happy birthday to me and be done with it. I mean what the fuck is wrong with me? I’m so confusing to myself. You think I’d be able to figure myself out.
I never got that happy birthday from her. Doesn’t matter, I suppose; although, it probably would have felt good and brightened my day.
Thanks to Julie by the way for wishing me a happy birthday. I know you’re not reading this but I just thought I’d say thanks because we don’t really talk and you’re all the way in Georgia, I think, but you still cared enough to click on my facebook page and type in a few letters. So thanks again.
P.S. I really, really hate myself.