I really am not a big fan of the word “hate”, it sounds so hateful. But if there is one thing I hate in this world, it’s birthdays. Birthdays bring out the worst in all of my girlfriends. They are the reason I sometimes think I should roam the planet- or Quincy, since I don’t leave- alone. Maybe I won’t have friends anymore after they are finished reading this post, or maybe they’ll agree with me and cancel all their future birthday plans (hashtag wishful thinking). I miss the simpler days of Hoodsie cups and cone hats and clowns that made me almost pee my overalls in fear. I’m not sure what the fuck happened to birthdays, but I don’t like it. The main reason that I hate birthdays is the sense of entitlement people feel on their own birthday. It’s like that song, “It’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to”, go ahead and cry bitch, you deserve a good sympathy cry. You and a billion other people were born on this day 24 years ago, so how about you bitch your loved ones around for 24 hours?! Nope. All set. I have friends that celebrate their birthdays for a fucking week. What is THAT?! Did you not get enough attention growing up that you feel you have to compensate by having your broke ass friends cover your tab for a week? Then if, God forbid, someone can’t make it to all of the parties lined up that week for that one friend, the birthday girl gets all pissed off, saying things like, “Well, I sent out a Facebook invite for this party 17 weeks in advance, so if she can’t make it, that’s kind of F’ed up. Like, it is that hard to take work off for one day?!”. Um, since when is it okay to ask your friends to take a day off from work to celebrate yourself? I don’t even take my own birthday off, what makes someone think I will take theirs off?! In-fucking-sane. One of the worst birthday party celebrations takes place on party buses. They start off innocent enough with a Facebook invite stating that everyone who attends will need to pay $10-15 each to cover the charge for the bus itself. Then you are happy when you read in the event description that most clubs in Boston will comp the cover charge and let the party bus go’ers cut the line. Then when you get to the spot the bus picks everyone up at, you realize the event description is full of bullshit lies. The birthday girl goes around collecting the money, but tacks on another $10 each to get on the bus because half the confirmed party guests bailed last minute. Then you get on the bus and start boozing immediately, and it’s actually a fun time. Until you have to pee and you realize there is no bathroom on this dumb ass bus. Unless you want to pop a squat in a sketchy Boston alleyway, you have to hold it until you get to the first club. When you get to your first destination, you are told that this place doesn’t participate in the party bus line cut/comped cover. And you find out that the other two clubs on your hostess’s checklist don’t participate either. So you spent like $50 on just getting into these shitty clubs so you can watch the birthday girl drunkenly ride a mechanical bull. Then you drop more money on drinks for yourself, and a drink for the birthday girl of course. God knows she’s not drunk enough already. Basically, you spent a day at work to pay for a ride to town on a painted school bus, in which you might piss yourself, and then you have to babysit your now 24 year old friend. And it’s not like you can go to these events sober, especially when you witness a crotch shot of your friend riding a mechanical bull.
The most annoying kind of birthday girl is the birthday girl who complains the day after her party about how awful it was. Wow, only 10 out of the 18 people you invited to your extravaganza showed up. Guess what? The other 8 are talking shit about you right now because you’re obnoxious, and only 4 out of the 10 at the party are your real friends anyways. The remaining 6 guests just had no other plans for the night. Complaining about how lame your special day was is a first world problem, and you need to end the madness.
I guess it’s that time in this blog entry to come clean and admit to everyone that my last birthday event was entitled, “Mollypalooza”. But before you call me a hypocrite, please know that my Palooza took place in Quincy Center, and only lasted one night. Wicked lame, but it was the best way to ensure that most of the people invited actually show up. Keeping it local is cheap and easy, like the girl you went to prom with (unless you went to prom with me). I should also add that not all of my friends have these My Super Sweet 16-esque birthday parties. Just last week one of my girlfriends had hers at a local bar, complete with a few friends, drinks, and nachos. And it was a much better time than any party bus or Tequila Rain experience I’ve ever encountered. So to the friends I have left: please stop getting pissed off if I can’t make it to your party. You know that I’m a broke ass who dances like Elaine Benes. Stop subjecting everyone to your bull riding crotch shots. And don’t say I owe you a drink if I just paid multiple cover charges after exiting a school bus that I paid way too much to ride on. I’ll buy you two drinks if you don’t act like I owe it to you, because if anything, you owe it to me and my sore feet. Save the self absorption for your wedding or divorce party, otherwise you can consider this blog entry an early Regrets Only response from yours truly.