Unhappy birthday

"You said something stupid like love steals us from loneliness. Happy birthday. Are you lonely yet?" - Idlewild

June 27, 1996
I was a pre-pubescent girl. I aspired to be rude like the boys, uttering fowl words in Hokkien in class like it was nobody’s business. (I do not know about you, but there is something really coarse about rude words in Hokkien. It is probably the rudest language of profanity ever to walk the Earth). The American way was the way to go. We spoke in English despite studying in a Chinese primary school. We listened to English songs – it was the reigning years of boybands and Backstreet Boys were our Gods – and would not speak of our past in the Chinese culture. I aspired to be cool and to be cool was to be bad.

It was not a huge party but quite a close-knitted one with my then best friends – Melissa (you are so reading this right now, lol), Genevieve, Chia Yiing and Khun Hooi. We gathered in the apartment I called my childhood home. I probably ordered pizza for the first time over the phone, a very “grown up” gesture for a kid like me then. We cranked Backstreet Boys and 911 to the top volume and did stuff we thought it was cool then. Of course, my parents were not at home.

Somehow, we got bored of what we were doing and decided to hit the streets. We were all dressed in black, some were in their oversized Backstreet Boys T-shirts (I was not because I was a poor kid and $15 a T-shirt was something my parents would not understand), and the day was stifling hot. We were kids; we did not have the licence to drive nor the knowledge to hail a bus. Yet, we walked on our own two feet to a bookstore in the next suburb and argued a little over who should purchase that issue of Bop on the shelves. Back then, it seemed cool. I failed to understand why it was cool the very next year.

I guess the novelty of coolness wore off when we were too tired to walk back and I called my dad over the payphone to pick us up at the nearest bus stop. My dad was not pleased when he showed up. We were red-faced and sweating twice the normal amount in our heat-absorbing outfits.

It was downright silly. But I was a kid.

June 27, 1999
I did not have much friends but I liked the term “the more the merrier”. I decided to have a birthday party without really planning it. What to eat. What to do. What to listen to. The shits. I just thought, “Hey, it’s my birthday, come on over and have a blast” without working on the “blast”.

I mentioned to Ethan about this and told him it was cool for him to bring over some of his friends. Never in my wildest imagination that the kid sitting next to me in primary school and snatching my entire exercise book during spelling tests to peek on would have an entire army of friends. I was new the teenager world and I wanted to be cool and coming from an all-girls' high school, I had the idea that having boys in my "party" would win me ten cool brownie points. Boy, was I wrong.

Things started off mellow. My friends swung by, probably just a handful. I was not a popular girl and I was quite picky of the friends I hung out with. And then, Ethan and his army gate-crashed my so-called party. Literally. They lingered on the street outside my house and by the looks of it, I knew it was a bad idea to get them in the same room as my parents. They were boys, for fuck’s sake. How were you when you were a teenager, huh? Rude and rowdy. When boys were 14, they were not one to be on a line-up where my parents pick which to be their future son-in-law.

I freaked out. Probably got in an argument with Ethan along the line of “I said a few, not an army!” They could not attend my “party” so the job was to get them out of my neighbourhood before someone starts a bigger scene. It was quite an embarrassing act; you told a guy friend who told his buddies it was cool to crash a chick’s birthday party, but before they could go in for some food they were shooed away.

I think my dad came out and talked to Ethan about it. I apologised profusely to him as he escorted his homies out of the neighbourhood to the nearest kopitiam. He was not pleased. Nobody was. I bet they hated me that night, saying it was cool to crash my “party” but throwing them out before they could get in.

When I got back to my “party”, my aunt was conducting a Christian sing-a-long to my guests. I was half-glad the boys did not make it past the gates. It would just be downright embarrassing.

June 27, 2003
My 14th birthday scared me. I was too afraid to do anything for my birthday in years that followed. I even resorted to nothingness for the oh so popular Sweet 16. Besides, I was a moody teenager. My parents gave me my first Discman and wrote in the birthday card of my bad temper and how they still loved me anyway.

But I guess I forgot all about it when I turned 18. I was fresh into college and I thought it would be a good idea to rally my different groups of friends in the same room for a birthday gathering. I refuse to use the word “party” because you shall understand later on.

I did not want anything fancy so my dad thought it was a good idea to have a buffet dinner at a hotel. His friend was the General Manager for say hotel and he easily secured a conference room with bad birthday decorations for the event. I had friends from my high school band, friends from my college and friends I usually hang out with: Ames, Shu Wen and Yi Shu. Ying Swee was already in New Zealand so she was missing all the fun. Not. And my family members.

I shall tell you why it is a “gathering”. It was like a fucking conference to meet well, me. My friends were segregated as mentioned above and they took turns to take pictures with me in groups as mentioned above. It was a bad bad picture. Stop picturing it. It is a bad bad picture. Granted I went clubbing for the first time past midnight. (I told my parents my friends and I would be hotel staying in another hotel; it was the perfect excuse to go get drunk and sexy; fine, neither happened).

Lame is the word. And that was the final straw. On my 18th birthday, I decided not to have a birthday party. Ever. I am a bad party hostess and an official party pooper. So to save my friends from boredom and myself from further dork embarrassment, I shall withdraw myself from such annual celebrations. Unless someone has the heart to organise one for me, I would appreciate you give me my presents when you chance upon me or just mail it to my home address. Thank you.

 

Inspired by Frankie Issue #14 "My Worst Birthday".
Feel free to leave a comment with your worst birthday or birthdays.