Another Dreadful Year

September 6th, 2017by deadd

Birthday: the anniversary of the day on which a person was born, typically treated as an occasion for celebration and the giving of gifts.

People are suppose to celebrate themselves on their birthdays, right? A wholly day devoted to YOU, treat yoself, blah blah blah, self love.

Rewind to September 11, 2001. My fifth birthday. I was fortuitous enough to be located in New Jersey, just 10 mere miles from the twin towers. We always used to do a “birthday dinner” and I remember being at the Trackside grill. I remember everyone being huddled around the TV, crying as the towers made their final collapse. Notice the name of the restaurant: I remember people getting off of the commuter trains coming from NYC covered in soot, dust, despair. I remember asking, “Mommy, daddy, why is everyone crying on my birthday?” After we had our food and all, the restaurant sang happy birthday to me as they brought me some dessert with a candle. My dad says it was a little bit of happiness in a tragic day, but even at five I didn’t really fall for it. Sugarcoating the fact that I will never really have a birthday. My grandpa told me that when I was 6 or 7, I cried to him saying I had “the worst birthday in the world”. It stuck out enough to him (and to me) to tell me about that ~10 years later.

WOW I’m so narcissistic! Being so selfish thinking about my own fucking birthday when thousands of people would have their lives changes forever. I was fucking five.

Tears For Fear’s song “Mad World” — “Children waiting for the day they feel good, happy birthday, happy birthday” — That has always stuck out to me. I’m a little strange and remember having suicidal ideations right after I moved into my house that October of 2001, but I’m positive they were there before that as well. That’s just the first solidified and vivid memory I have of saying “If I don’t run down the stairs and reach the bottom before my door to my room closed as I left, I would kill myself”. You’re given one fucking day to feel good about yourself, and at 5, I was already destined to self-hate.

Every fucking year, all the sad songs play on the radio all day. I remember my first year in high school, and how I was rather unsettled after we had 5 or 6 moments of silence that day. One for the first plane crash, one for the second, one for the plane that went down in Pennsylvania or some shit, one for the first building’s collapse, and one for the second’s collapse. The little attendance thing teachers use alerts them of our birthdays, a little special acknowledgement on a very special day. Nope. Many teachers did not really say happy birthday;  they were attending to more important things. I often got called a terrorist for having a birthday on 9/11, even though I was born five years before the terrorist attacks. You can’t escape this sense of melancholy surrounding such a catastrophic event. Years and years have gone by, I’ve pretty much gotten over it.

My 21st birthday is coming up on Monday. First of all, let’s start with it’s fucking Monday. Every other day of the week has some little event attached to it: Turn up Tuesday, Wine Wednesday, Thirsty Thursday, and of course there’s the weekend. Even if someone has a Sunday birthday, they can head on over to the bar on midnight to celebrate. No one goes to the bar Sunday nights, so I won’t ever get to flaunt that whole “omg it’s my 21st birthday” and wear the stupid fucking ribbons that declare you as the “birthday princess”. Not that I want to be the center of attention, it just hits a little hard.

I’m at college and have to physically return to New Jersey to get my flipped license so I can get into bars, because no one will take an out-of-state vertical license. I planned on going home that next weekend, and spend the weekend with my friends and family. Circumstances have resulted in me staying at school over the summer, so I have been home a total of 5 weeks the entire year of 2017. Most people wouldn’t care, but I’ve always been a little sensitive to homesickness, and the fact I live five hours away makes it extremely difficult to go home. I anticipated that weekend I wanted to go home to be the weekend before my first set of exams from classes, making it so I couldn’t go. I anxiously waited to get my syllabi from my classes, to see that I actually had a whole weekend after that to prepare for exams. And my schedule worked out so I don’t even have class on Tuesdays or Thursdays. Maybe it won’t be so bad, right?

Wrong.

I recently took my GRE exam for grad school, and I got the results back yesterday. I scored in the 62nd percentile for Verbal, 84th percentile for Analytical writing……. and for Math? I somehow fucking managed to score in the 38th percentile. THIRTY FUCKING EIGHT. Are you kidding me? For someone who studied at least 6 hours every single fucking day for 6 weeks straight? I’m actually better at math, ironically, I just can’t do it in the time slot provided even though I know how to solve them. 30 minutes to do 20 math problems that exist for the sole purpose of tricking you. Inevitably, I have to now retake the GRE in three weeks, because I could not even fucking manage to score at least the 45th percentile. That would have sufficed. I put my entire heart and soul into studying for that thing. I sacrificed my emotional stability (or lack there-of) to study for this exam, when I normally spend my time off school working on myself. I get into a good workout regime because working out is fucking healthy and good for you mentally. And I fix my eating habits so I don’t starve to death because working out makes it okay to eat in a less restricted manner.

Now, classes have started, my on-campus job in turn has picked up momentum, and my extracurriculars are necessities. When am I suppose to have time to study for this fucking thing again? I don’t have four hours to set aside to take a practice exam on top of my other classes. And this doesn’t include the endless hours I would spend just running through drills and then going over answers. Maybe an accelerated prep course would help… but it’s on Tuesday, the day after my birthday. So much room for celebration, huh?

So, my 21st birthday, as if I am not lucky enough to have my birthday on a the anniversary of major terrorist attacks, is also on A FUCKING MONDAY, as I’ve already mentioned. Can’t celebrate the weekend before, because there’s a huge difference in a couple of days on whether you are or are not allowed in certain places. Which, I’m the last of my “friends” to turn 21, so at best, they will “pre-game” with me for an hour before they all go to the bar, leaving me behind. If I celebrate that next weekend, it’s awkward because Monday is closer to that last weekend, not this one. And because of this exam, I will not once go out my entire “birth-month”, as we so desperately need to extend this period of self-celebration because one wholly day is just not enough. Try having no day, and no reason to celebrate yourself at all because you’re a failure piece of shit who can’t do anything right, including having a birthday worth celebrating.

Wah I’m drowning in self-pity, tell me I’m a horrible person for it, how I’m so selfish.

I’m not even worth celebrating.

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