Poor man’s birthday is a bucketful of cold water over your head

Flattery is for the rich, educated and those living plastic dreams and life. Those living below scrapping the bottom of the cream even we have special days when we just let loose. Our birthdays aren’t dotted with expensively hired party planners or genius creamed chocolate cakes spotting our latest clothes. We don’t drink from the finest and most expensively dressed bottles of wine and liquor and smoke off the finest Cuban cigar while we conversate about the numbers running up and down the stock exchange. The girls don’t wear the latest couture and spot the latest manicure neither rock the bestest pedicure done by the towns favorite blah blah with a French name in the best spot in town. We are not by the company CEO and don’t share the company intranet and never ever made to understanding board room jargon but our heads and hearts beat red and minds think and drink of happiness and memories worth locking away on a Kodak film.

The poor man’s birthday passes by like bird dropping on a random street walker. Our simple functionality phones don’t share bed with apps so as to remind us how old we become. Accessing face book is a myth and social network is a bunch of sex perverts hence we have limited chances to scream to the world.

How you like me now, just grown a year older

The gifts come colder than anything else. Don’t mean frozen ice just a bucket of cold water poured onto your head when you least expect it. Usually by the closest of friends who tips the others behind your back and then start cooking up juicy conversation that makes you forget it’s your bad day. One slip of the mind and you washed head to toe with a full bucket of water. As you get to terms with that another bucket full comes your way like a lost hurricane. Such cold gifts depend largely on the size of your friend circle and how crazy they are. Mine decided that clean fresh water was not exciting enough and they came up with a wicked plan.

All the campus sewage was collected secretly in buckets and was mixed with rotting mess food. Grasshoppers where kept in sealed plastic bottles for days to create the most disgusting smell. The mixture of the two was commonly known as chemical x and was used to pour hate on despotic school prefects who thought that having a different colored tie from us made them more of administrator’s than students. This chemical x was the deposited in their bedding to show them how low and disgusting we thought about them. And on my birthday to show how the pockets lowly felt about us they organised and hunched this evil plan and prepared birthday boys gifts.

Evening time they kept bringing up the topics they knew tickled my fancy and foolishly I fell for the trap despite knowing it’s my birthday and knew the dirty rituals of my sick friends. As the clock ticked its old legs away, their plot materialized like an Al Qaeda terror attack and this smelly water was emptied on me like female ejaculation leaving me stinking weeks on end


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