Currently listening to: In Da Club – 50 Cent
Go, go, go, go, go, go
Go shorty, it’s your birthday
We gon’ party like it’s your birthday
And we gon’ sip Bacardi like it’s your birthday
And you know we don’t give a fuck, it’s not your birthday
When I was a kid, I genuinely looked forward to birthdays. They were simple but comforting. My parents would order a bunch of food from McDonald’s or Dairy Queen, have family and a few people over at the house, and I’d get to open gifts. Most of the time, the gifts were practical: pens, socks, clothes, chonies—things I actually needed. Nothing I would take to school to show off, that’s for sure.
Meanwhile, the other kids at school were doing the whole Chuck E. Cheese thing or throwing hotel sleepovers like they were tiny Kardashians. My parents weren’t about that life. I remember once being invited to a classmate’s birthday party in the fourth grade—my one and only invite to a fellow student’s birthday. I had never been to Chuck E. Cheese before, and I didn’t know what to expect. My parents picked out and wrapped the gift without telling me what it was. When the girl opened it—a big pack of crayons—I could see the disappointment flash across her face. I wanted to crawl under the table. But her mom stepped in and, with total grace, said something about how it was great to have extra crayons for crafts. Then it was on to the next gift. That moment stuck with me because these were not the type of gifts people wanted to receive. They wanted dolls, toys, cool clothing, and such.
Fifth grade? No birthday party for me. insert Unhappy Birthday by The Smiths I lost my retainer after lunch—wrapped it in a napkin like a rookie, then accidentally tossed it out. It cost $600. My mom made me go dumpster diving to try and find them. I never did. A couple of classmates even tried to help me search, but it was a lost cause. My mom was so fucking furious. She slapped me across the face and yelled at me for hours, there would be no celebration that year. Message received.
Sixth grade rolled around and I got invited to a hotel party at Embassy Suites—an actual sleepover party with adult supervision and everything. My parents, once again, said “no.” Just flat out. That was the end of that.
When I hit seventeen and went off to uni, things changed. I was no longer under my parent’s thumb. My cousin and friends would sneak me into bars, and we’d tell everyone I was 21. It became a running joke. “Forever XXI.” I got embarrassingly wasted more times than I can count. I don’t even remember how I made it home half the time, but thankfully I was always with people I trusted. They took care of me.
Then there was the Vegas birthday trip when I turned twenty-two. My Chicago friends and I decided: why not? Sleep was not a priority. We lived off liquor, caffeine, and the buzz of neon lights. Somehow, I managed to win thousands of dollars playing blackjack—even though I barely understood the rules. Beginner’s luck?
Dating brought in a different kind of birthday energy. The guys I dated would go all out—expensive dinners at places like Spago, Fogo de Chão, Lawry’s, Mastro’s, and more. Big gestures, expensive champagne, and being a passenger princess in their luxury cars. That was probably the only time I ate like a king. Unfortunately, those relationships didn’t last long. They wanted the quintessential arm candy housewife and I didn’t want to be that. I had hopes and dreams to do major things. I didn’t want to be told what to do, how to act, and what to wear. I’ve been there, done that, got the t-shirt.
Now? My friends are all about destination birthdays. Maldives. Vancouver. México. New York. They want experiences, Instagrammable moments, and bucket list checkmarks. I’m down to go with them and have a grand ole time.
Me? I’ll be going to work for 16 hours but I would rather have the day off, eat an amazing meal, and have mind blowing sex. The kind where my eyes roll so far back that it looks like I’m about to hit that REM sleep. Is that too much to ask for?
…You can find me in the club, bottle full of bub’
Look, mami, I got the X if you’re into takin’ drugs
I’m into havin’ sex, I ain’t into makin’ love
So come give me a hug if you’re into gettin’ rubbed
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