Goodness, I can’t believe I’m so late in delivering this message. I hope there’s enough time left.
My birthday is in a month. Will you have enough time to buy me presents by April 6?
I always have crappy birthdays. Probably this started out naturally. Now it’s turned into a self-fulfilling prophesy. I may as well resign myself to it.
Mom and Dad will be coming up for a few days. I always love seeing Mom and Dad, though I’m a little irritated that they didn’t ask first. (Sorry, Mom, but really. What if I’d had other plans? And now it’s not like I can *make* other plans.)
“There go my chances of birthday sex,” I told them. Mom had the decency to look sheepish. Dad, I think, didn’t have anything to do with it.
But they’re largely off the hook because, let’s face it, my chances of birthday sex were purely hypothetical, like Bigfoot, or particles smaller than quarks, or someone who’s read Finnegan’s Wake.
Still though, I’m running out of excuses to get people to sleep with me. The charm of being the new girl at the library has worn off by this point, and besides, there’s a newer new girl, whom I won’t mention by name because I can’t think of a good pseudonym for her yet. She recommended a young adult book by Markus Zusak called I Am the Messenger. I read it today, and New Girl is pretty lucky I liked it, because I stop speaking to people who recommend bad books. Sorry if that sounds harsh, but books are important. The style and moderate surrealism reminded me of Jerry Spinelli, and if that’s not a compliment I don’t know what is.
So I can no longer bat my lashes coyly and say “Woe unto me, I’m new and alone and nobody knows me, oh how I wish someone would buy me a margarita.” That trick’s not working anymore, and the old standbys—ravishing good looks, brilliant personality, razor-sharp wit—well, frankly, they’ve never done me much good in the getting laid department. (Which, had I less confidence, might make me wonder if I’m actually ravishing and brilliant and all that. But of course this is not a consideration. At all.)
About the only card left up my sleeve is one I can only use once per year: “Woe unto me, it’s my birthday, oh how I wish someone would buy me a margarita.” Which Mom and Dad will certainly do, but that’s not quite was I was angling for. At least I won’t have to go through the indignity of batting my lashes to get a drink out of them.
But though you won’t be able to sleep with me on my birthday (sorry, folks) you are still welcome to get me presents. To facilitate matters, I have composed a wish list. Any of the following items are acceptable:
- World peace
- A flame thrower
- A pony
- A dinosaur (smallish, as I live in an apartment; no sauropods, please)
- The next Harry Potter book
- Universal popularity
- A tropical isle
- An arctic isle
- Birthday sex
- A multi-volume popular fiction book deal, cash advance
- Some ninjas
- Johnny Depp (***may be combined with birthday sex, if that’s easier for you)
- The head of John the Baptist on a silver plate
Oooh, that reminds me:
Q: What do Winnie the Pooh and John the Baptist have in common?
A: Same middle name.
All right. You’ve got one month to shop for presents. Get to it!