It’s My Birthday and I’ll Say “Donkey Show” if I Want to

Yup. It’s my birthday. I’m thirty-six whole years old. I’m thirty-six whole years old and have little to show for it.

I could say I own a house; but my ex-wife lives in it, pays for it and basically has nearly all the assets we shared. You may think that’s horrible, but she’s the mother of my children, and my children are more important than me, her, her parents or any bullshit we had together. So, in essence, it’s my kids’ house. Still, I have no house.

In fact, my only real asset is my car, which I fully own, which also hasn’t been driven in months. Thanks to an insurance foul-up and other problems (read: no goddamned money), Mr. Car just sits there, silently cursing my existence.

Yeah, I have stuff. Some stuff. A couple of old computers (including this four year old laptop I’m typing on right now), comic books, boardgames, an old Xbox (or “ship anchor”, as I like to call it), a folding bed, a whole bunch of history books, clothes, kids toys for the kids, and various other sundry items, etc. My stuff is limited, to say the least. It serves little purpose than to give me a headache whenever I need to move to a new place of residence.

Speaking of which, due to trusting in getting paid, like, I’m supposed to, I’ll have to find a new place of residence soon. It’s not so bad– I just feel like a giant asshole sitting here and thinking I could work a job as a writer with little trouble. Okay, I never thought that. I’ve always known being a professional writer/editor person is tough. There are times when I have to look for other work to make ends meet. There are times when I look at young people selling me shit in the mall and want to strangle them because they have it good and I don’t. And yet they always wish they were me, writing and getting paid to write. It’s a weird world.

I do feel like a giant asshole, though.

It’s my birthday, and I want you to appreciate what you fucking have. Alright? It’s moments like these I think about a certain ex-girlfriend and how she is so sad and depressed– like, needs-therapy and to be locked up for a while depressed– and yet she works a cake job that overpays her and lives with her incredibly well-off parents… and I would do my damnedest to not point at her and start shrieking like a Body Snatcher when she would complain she wasn’t doing what she wanted to do. She would complain. She would cry. She would act like a spoiled princess whose pony came in a color she disliked. Meanwhile, I would listen to her and think about my crappy mall job, which I worked five times harder than she did for 25% of the pay. I would then think about how I was also making time for her, making time for my kids, and making time for writing.

I would then think about her being set on fire.

Of course, I would keep all that shit to myself and try to be supportive and kind. Sadly, this all usually led to her saying I was too cynical and I complained too much. I was a whiner. I was too talkative about feelings.

I was basically a human being. And she doesn’t like human beings.

This is the part where I say “I wish her the best” and other annoying, placating shit. Fuck that. Maybe she’ll get her head on straight; maybe she won’t. It doesn’t matter. I honestly don’t care anymore. She’s simply an anecdote now; one I can use while pointing out you should appreciate what you have.

I should also take my own advice.

It’s too easy to wallow in shitiness. Life has dealt me a bad hand. I’m stuck in Canada. My ex-wife fucked me over so hard that people in Burkina Faso felt it. I have no money. I’m always struggling. Whine, whine, whine, bitch, bitch, bitch, moan, moan, moan. And yet I still don’t kill myself… much to the displeasure to those I displease so much.

I don’t believe in fate, karma, gods, psychic powers or destiny. I am a human meat sack waiting to die. Each birthday I have is a prick of a reminder of that sad, sad, cold, hard truth. That said, I still love what I have. I still love living my life. I still treat every birthday I have like a pandimensional holiday.

That’s why this birthday is already better. My last two birthdays were pretty lame. The one from two years back involved a restaurant making me sick, an asshole bank manager friend of a friend who told me writing and comic books was for losers, and basically knowing my marriage was ending, and ending badly. Last year involved my girlfriend at the time buying Beerfest tickets, which promptly sold out, then said I was a jerk for assuming she was taking me to Beerfest for my birthday (because Beerfest fell on my birthday last year, as it does this year). Now, I can’t drink beer due to life-fucking allergies, but I was, like, “what the fucking fuck?”. Eventually, I talked her into giving me a ticket for my birthday present. But seriously: She had no intention of even taking me. To a festival she was going to. On my goddamned birthday. Jesus.

And did I listen to Warning Sign #4567 on this particular person? Hell, no. I’m a goddamned idiot. Anyways, we went to Beerfest, which led to me being bored out of my mind and hovering around the only vendor selling cider (which I can drink– yay!). Afterwards, we left and I literally ran into a group of drunks.

Hey, it’s Beerfest. Motherfucking drunks abound like motherfuckers.

The drunks were cool, and very drunk. I mentioned that it was my birthday and one of them started insisting on buying me booze. I politely declined, and the dude became incredibly belligerent (surprise, I know). All I wanted to do is get to my car and make some goddamned nachos at my girlfriend’s house. My then-girlfriend started yelling at drunk belligerent dude and screaming that I was going to wear his face like a Halloween mask. Me and her family members looked at each other, and we waved and said our fuck-yous… and walked for my car.

Which had a parking ticket.

No other car near-by had one, and I know they didn’t live in that neighborhood. I remember thinking “it can’t get much worse, right?”. But it did. After making some epic nachos, my girlfriend and I headed over to a friend’s place, who was also having a birthday and visiting from Europe. Some friends of mine showed up, and they were awesome. What wasn’t awesome was how my girlfriend quickly started complaining and wanting to go home. Within a half hour, she was laying on the sidewalk outside, napping. To this day, a buddy that was there still refers to her as “crazy sidewalk napper girl”.

It’s funnier when he says it because he has a heavy French accent.

So that was my birthday last year. Pretty crap, overall. And here I sit, mere blocks away from Beerfest and where some dickhole called my car in for parking in front of their house. This is one of the reasons why I hate living here, in Victoria. It’s like a microcosm of suck. If something sucks hard– don’t worry, it will be around again because nothing ever escapes the Island. It’s like living in a really boring science fiction horror movie.

Now, it’s my birthday again. I’m thirty-six whole years old. I’m thirty-six whole years old and have little to show for it. Other people my age have houses, boats, cars and all kinds of shit. I don’t even own a TV. I do have a bunch of role-playing games, though, which I like to think about so I can feel superior in my own special way.

This all might sound like depressive bitching in the form of interesting word salad, but I really am trying to be happy. I accept my life is insane, just like a few of my ex-relationships. I suppose it make me a more interesting person, which in turn makes for interesting writing. I guess. You know the saying: Write what you know.

Well, I know donkey show.

I also know I’m thirty-six whole years old and have an entire life to show for it.

I’m okay with that.

 

UPDATE: And I’m totally okay with being in love with a lovely woman who loves me, feeds me and gives me a bag of tacos on my birthday.

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2 Responses to “It’s My Birthday and I’ll Say “Donkey Show” if I Want to”

  1. happy birthday man! You can still write and make people think about things… greets!
    m (from LJ)

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