Why I Don't Have Birthday Parties...

So, the last, "official" birthday party I had was in eighth grade when I thought it would be hilarious to subject my friends to a "Bug's Life" themed party, complete with a theme cake, decorations, and a screening of the movie. It was terrible, and an asshole-ish thing to do, and I thought it was hilarious. My friends did not. At one point my parents had to intervene because one of my friends was slamming his head against the wall. We stopped the movie and talked awkwardly about sex instead. That was way more awesome. Not.

Since then I've had many a birthday celebration, but nothing strictly classifiable as a party. Enjoy a brief synopsis:

We'll start with my twentieth birthday. My friends and I went to dinner and then out for drinks, where I proceeded to get incredibly drunk and make out with twelve of my closest friends, to include the guy my best friend was dating. Don't worry, I had enough sobriety in me to wait until my friend was in the bathroom. This was the year that I had two birthday parties. In December, after having dinner with my family for my little sister's birthday (where I received an incredibly belated birthday card with enough money in it to make up for the fact that it was nearly three months late) I treated several of my friends to several hundred dollars worth of drinks, smoked some pot, and then sat in the Taco Bell drive thru line for 45 minutes. Oh yeah, I forgot an interesting part about the first party of this year: after bar time we all went back to my apartment where I stripped down to my underwear and literally forced my best friend's boy-person to do a whip-it. Because I'm awesome.

And then, the obligatory twenty first birthday. At the time I was living in New York and didn't really have many friends yet. You all know how friendly I am. Anyway, I spent the evening with my friend Dustin, his boyfriend James (who I, to this day do not like) and a bunch of James' friends. It was a very nice gesture, don't get me wrong. We went to happy hour at 6 o'clock and by 6:15 I was tanked. Around 6:45, sixteen sheets into my inebriation, my family called and I had the pleasure of rambling drunkenly to my little sister for half an hour. Then they took me to the gayest of all gay clubs in NY, where I decided it would be a good idea to ask the drag queen mc, by means of yelling at her while she was on stage, when she was going to shut the fuck up. A fight nearly ensued, James lifted me off my feet and spun me around on the dance floor like a limp ragdoll, I nearly got decapitated hanging my head out the window of a cab, passed out by midnight on Dustin's couch but not before he had to yell at me several times to put pants on because his straight roommate was going to be home soon, woke up at 7 (drunk as hell), took the subway home and had to run out of the station to throw up on the the street.

Twenty second birthday wasn't very eventful. Lonney and I went to Spokane. Got drunk. Sat in a sauna for two hours, completely shit faced, eating edamame. Then I passed out in my underwear, in my bed, while I was trying to tell Lonney that he was not allowed to sleep in my bed, that he needed to stop trying to cuddle with me... and then I woke up next to Lonney. My underwear woke up on the floor, nowhere near my body.

So, I guess what I'm trying to say is that while I really do love the idea of spending the day with my friends, I've had my fill of awkward, belligerently drunk, poorly thought out birthdays that usually end in me naked (possibly raped) and not in a good way.