My last birthday was a complete hellhole shit show. It was September 4th. I think I have sufficiently recovered to talk about it, even though I still kind of don't acknowledge that it really happened. I mentally called do-over, like a little kid who fucked up in four square. This has caused me to have a somewhat bizarre, awkward reaction when people ask me how old I am. Sometimes I stutter. I'm hoping this response fades with time, because it isn't very cute or convenient. Not enriching my life a whole lot, I don't think. Nope.
Birthdays are always weird for me, for many reasons, but this one definitely deserves a special mention. I felt it coming the way you can tell you're coming down with something.
It wasn't even a milestone birthday. I just had an incredibly eventful, stressful, fucked up, I-almost-died-but-then-I-didn't-and-I'm-still-a-little-confused-about-that kind of a year. Maybe someone else would have been really jazzed up about this birthday, like they conquered something. I was filled with dread. This was mainly due to the fact that I was being overly self critical, and because things hadn't exactly gone how I planned and I'm somewhat controlling, I was thinking that I was never going to get where I wanted to be. The passing of a birthday was like someone saying, "See, told you, stupid. Did you do what you said you were going to do yet? Nope. All your dreams come true? Nope. Reach your big goals? Not really. You know you're not getting any younger." In reality, I was the only one saying that, to myself. Well, maybe other people think I haven't achieved as much as I should have, but really if anyone is judging me about that or anything else it is probably more about their own issues than anything I have done, so fuck them.
Moving on...
The night before my birthday, I was supposed to go out with a friend. A guy "friend," who in retrospect, I shouldn't have gone anywhere with, ever in life. I didn't know him that well. I didn't really know anyone well at that point, locally anyway. I had recently moved to Boston, and most of my friends were either in the Midwest or on the west coast. I was not exactly being as picky as I should have been being about friends at this particular juncture of my life. His name was (still is, I suppose) Tony. We were supposed to go out and do something fun. I don't remember what he had said anymore, it seems like maybe a movie or something.
When he picked me up, he said he had to stop by his place really quick, and got on the highway. When we were still on the highway twenty five minutes later, I asked him how far away he lived. I was under the impression he lived nearby. Worcester. Oh cool, that's Only an hour drive. The outlook for the rest of the evening suddenly looked rather bleak. He proceeded to his house, and invited me in. Great, if I go in, this is certainly not going to be quick, but if I don't, who knows how long I'll be sitting in this godforsaken car. So, I went in. We were not the only ones there, so I wasn't particularly freaked out, but I wasn't overcome with joy either. To make a long story short, a lot of awkwardness and sketchy behavior followed. He popped in and out of rooms, there was a bunch of rustling and banging; it was just weird. Then he made an uninvited sexual advance, and I resisted the urge to kill him.
It was a very strong urge.
I can't promise that he would not be dead right now if I had happened to have a weapon in my purse. Unfortunately, I did not. Had I, it would have prevented this rest of this nightmare from unfolding.
I said he should take me back, but he apologized profusely and made this big shitty deal about how he really wanted me to have a good time and he didn't mean for that to happen, misunderstanding, etc. He eventually convinced me to go to his friends' house, somehow. Maybe he bribed me with Scooby Snacks or something, I can't recall. We got there, and everything seemed all right. And it was. Until it wasn't. I gradually edged away from Tony so that I didn't find something to stab or poison him with, and started talking to his moronic friends, which was somewhat entertaining. They were actually having a conversation that could have had some sort of philosophical depth if any of them knew what the hell they were talking about. At some point, I went to use the facilities, and accidentally opened the door to a sight I wasn't quite prepared for. Some scraggly, skinny kid, mainlining heroin. That was charming. That was very charming, and relaxing, and made me probably want to spend the night. Maybe cuddled up with that guy. And probably leave my purse unattended in plain site, also.
Excuse me, is this real life right now? When I agreed to come to this 'social event' I didn't even think there was going to be alcohol here. In fact, I was led to believe there wouldn't be, and now someone is shooting up in the fucking bathroom?
Not cool, dude. Not cool. The guy looked at me like I had interrupted him mid-coitus, and I looked at him like I had just discovered the Elephant Man relaxing on my couch. See ya. I was pissed off enough that I was having a shitty night, but to add insult to injury, I kept remembering Tony carrying on about how he knew I wasn't looking forward to my birthday and he wanted to make sure I had a 'great time, best birthday ever.' Should have known, statements like that are usually the kiss of death.
When I located Tony's stupid ass, his mood was a bit different. He seemed paranoid. It was giving me anxiety trying to talk to him. He kept pacing and looking out the windows, and I kept telling him to knock it the hell off before I punched him the head. I asked him to please take me back. He said he would. In a half an hour. Half an hour passed, I asked him again, he said the same thing. I asked if he would pay for a cab or let me take his car or something. He agreed. We got in a slight dispute about how it would work if I took his car. We got in a slight dispute about how much a cab would cost. During all this, I realized he was in the process of getting drunk, and that the reason he was paranoid was because the motherfucker had been SMOKING CRACK. He tried to offer to take me back himself again and we went around and around about this for literally hours, while in the meantime I was making multiple phone calls to people at home explaining the situation, but no one could come get me. I was not about to take a ride from a rapey (and getting rapier seeming by the minute) drunken crackfiend, nor did I want to take his car and have to have any contact with him in the future.
I finally got a cab to come, but this doucheflop decided he needed to have an angry conversation with me about me rejecting his advances because he was certain that I must have known he had feelings for me, and I don't know, bla bla bla you're a frigid bitch something something. Really, you're going to sloppily yell at me right now? In the meantime, the cab came, waited for a few minutes, and then left when I didn't come out. THANKS TONY, you get more awesome by the minute, ya skeezy-ass fucksnorkle creep-nut crackaaa! By the time I finally got a cab, it was 7 a.m.
In my head I'm imagining a flight attendant type voice saying:
"Good morning. Happy Birthday. Let's take a moment to examine your surroundings..."
What the hell just happened?
I guess escaping the crackhouse was kind of a good birthday present? I got home and promptly fell asleep, impressed with myself for not cheerfully burning their house down before I got into that cab. The cab driver, by the way, was the exact opposite of what I wanted him to be. Once my ass hit that seat, I wanted to close my eyes, stare at the back of my eyelids, and listen to silence until I got home. This guy wanted to tell me all about his wife, kids, and extended family, as well as the minutia of the last 5 years of his life. He kept asking me for advice about things. Like what he should say to his wife if he is going to be home late so she doesn't get mad (are you having an affair?awkward). He said something like 'You're a woman, help me out here.' Yep, I sure am a woman. A woman that from the sound of it has absolutely nothing in common with your wife and the fact that I know enough about your wife to know that I don't have anything in common with her tells me that I know way too much about your personal life and after the night I just had I could not possibly give less of one flying fuck in outer space, you probably-cheating-on-your-wife twat-tard. I actually said something more along the lines of, "Why don't you just tell her you're disappointed that you're not going to be able to spend as much time with her as you expected, and then tell her the truth about whatever is going to be holding you up?" Wuss! I'm way, way more of a bitch in my head than I am out loud, but I can still be a serious bitch out loud sometimes. He lucked out, I think. Caught me off my game.
When I got out of the car, I felt like I had just given someone a free therapy session. Probably because I had. Cabbies. Interesting folk.
I got out of the cab looking at the ground, walked in the door, walked directly up the three flights of stairs, and got directly into my bed without saying a word to anyone. Staring at the ceiling replaying the events of the evening, I eventually drifted off to sleep. I still had the entirety of my Actual Birth Day to face. I could only imagine what was to come, and given my propensity to attract disaster, it was bound to be colorful.
And probably colorful like Froot Loop vomit, not like a rainbow.
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