April 27, 2011

They Say It's My Birthday

Yeah, It's My Fucking Birthday

Don't act so surprised. Anyone self-indulgent enough to have a blog is certainly self-indulgent enough to use that blog to commemorate their birth. Unlike my conception, this will be brief and painless. I promise.

Normally I examine my topics from afar, with a sardonic wit that is only rivaled by the guy who does MS Paints of himself as a pirate and the date rapist who inexplicably had a movie made about things that never happened. Fine company I keep.

Today, I'm the topic. To be perfectly honest, it's my least favorite topic. When conversations veer towards me, I immediately begin thinking of how to change the subject or at the very least deflect it towards something less objectionable. It's not that I think of myself as disinteresting; rather, the last thing I want to come off as is self centered. And that's why I decided to write this entry. Because it would challenge me to write about something I have zero interest in writing about. I apologize in advance.

So I figured I'd abide by the laws of 7's and look at my birthdays at every 7 years of my life. Or at least what I remember of them.

I don't remember much from this point. I do know that, at the time, I thought the living conditions were rather cramped and musky. And population control? Hello?! Can you say slum lord?? There were at least 1 million other tenants there! My last real memory was moving from this place to another place, and then nothing.

Again, musky. But...in a different way. After a long, strange trip, I was swiftly beaten by a strange man in white. This would establish a pattern of distrust in me for authority figures.

Ah, this was a good one. I remember playing on my front lawn with a yo-yo. I can't imagine why I didn't have more friends. But out of nowhere, a bright, shiny red fire truck pulled up. And who got to climb up on and fuck around with it? This kid! It's not like I was super into fire trucks at the time, but what 7 year old wouldn't want to do that? I'd be remiss if I didn't mention the victims of the April 27th, 1991 4 alarm fire at the Northern Home. Guess there just weren't enough trucks to handle it.

In the movie (of the week) of my life, this will be where I have my first kiss, first HJ and first GIGGITY. In reality, those things didn't happen for 6, 9 and 20 years, respectively. What happened at this birthday? I really can't remember. And not a good I can't remember. No drugs. No booze.

Jackpot! Due to my boyish good looks, this was the first time I'd (attempted to) be served. Went to Atlantic City. Impressed an old man who was a cross between Brian Dennehy and Archie Bunker with my argyle sweater vest. Led an entire dance floor to do "my" dance, which we called The Syler. The band was pissed. Smoked cigars and drank scotch with guys who were probably paper boys to my Grandpop. I then led a conga line throughout Harrah's casino from one bar to the next. This line featured approximately 6 middle aged women, 4 senior citizens, 1 assumed pimp, 3 black teenagers, me and my main droogie, the Guv.

At the final bar, one middle aged women in particular took a shining to the kid. And while the droog attempted negotiations with the assumed pimp for a price (which would prove fruitless, as there were in fact no pimps present and these ladies were all on the up and up), I made time with my desperate house wife. A MILF? Not quite. But I enjoyed kissing her. So, I guess you'd say she was a MILK. And it did my body good. All good things come to an end. And this one reached its zenith when my lady friend was escorted from the bar for not wearing shoes, something which I was willing to overlook.

We met up with a Mexican friend of ours afterwards, and alternately drank Jagermeister, ate cold cheeseburgers, and accused eachother of treachery.

We then ventured to Hershey Park, after a night and morning of drinking. At this point, the blood I was coughing up was secondary to the festivities I was enjoying. At a charming little bump in the road called Shakeys, I was feeling, well, shakey.

It should be noted that Shakeys is located directly behind the Hershey Police Department. No word on whether they cuff you with Twizzlers.

The next day, droog and I made it onto one roller coaster, where we both threatened to puke on each other. The simultaneous threat was enough to keep both of our stomachs at bay. We then spotted a welcomed sight, a bar. It said they opened at 11. So we sat and waited. And waited. And waited. Finally, at about 11:30, I went to the window and banged on the door. Turned out they opened at 11. The next year. Yeah, Shakeys got us fucked up.

All in all, my 21st celebration lasted just under one week. I think it fell about three weeks short of what it should have, but what can ya do?

Yes, I realize this isn't seven years from 21. But this is my game so we plays it my way, see? In a few hours I will be at work. After that, I will prepare to go back to work the next morning. But somewhere, in the upcoming weekend, I will find time to indulge in my favorite  past times.

I hope all your birthdays are as good as and better than mine.


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