Guest Post: 'The Worst Time to Write About a Birthday'

In which Fall 2023 English Composition 3 student Aiden Yu shares the story of a few special days

Photo by Jacek Dylag on Unsplash

I’ve told you about that one student, who read my book and over the summer sent me a surprisingly long memo about all the mistakes I’d made, grammar errors I could fix, and a solid list of ideas for how to improve the next book. To be fair, I have not yet published a next book. Lord knows I’ve tried!! I will never forget this guy.

Aiden Yu is another one. He’s got swagger, and when he walked into class that first day, in cool glasses, advanced footwear, and clothing that exceeded my knowledge about clothing, I was intrigued.

The guy could write, too! But he didn’t just chill on that early and considerable talent. He struck me as relentless, week after week, asking for advice, authors he should read, ways he could improve. He hasn’t given up.

Will Aiden one day publish a book? Will I have an opportunity to send him a memo with ideas for how he could improve?

For now, I invite you to set aside whatever is preoccupying you and enjoy this story of one student’s birthday.

Cake, Cartier, and Rice

By Aiden Yu

It is probably the worst time to start writing about a birthday. My girlfriend promised me another surprise this evening, but I was indulged in jotting some somber thoughts on paper. Happy? Not so much, but I am not unhappy, either. It is just another ordinary day with an ordinary self. Sleepless at 2 AM, I wondered about the meaning of birthdays. My birthdays all seemed desperately wanting for uniqueness and collapsed too quickly.

Eighteen was bitter. Somehow, I let my parents leave me to enjoy a night at a Jazz club in Beijing. As a loyal customer with a membership card, I received a bottle of wine for my birthday. The waiter was frustrated because he even asked to check my ID. After all, it is rare for an eighteen-year-old to celebrate adulthood with blue loneliness like a disheartened old man. 

Thanks to the terrible wine, I soon got drunk and wasted. There was an open mic section after the live music performance, and I was pushed to the stage after breaking the silence with witty jokes. My singing was so off-key that the piano accompanist stopped playing. Nevertheless, everybody thought it was funny and cheered. A couple bought me a drink and invited me to chat, and I learned my lesson about Long Island Ice Tea afterward: never trust sweet beverages. Long story short, two college girls brought me home. According to my mom, I puked while asleep, and she changed my clothes and bedding. Damn! Anyway, I’m still quite proud that I managed to come home and stay tough until going to bed.

Nineteen was sour. It wasn’t until now that I recalled an anecdote. It didn’t happen on my birthday, but a short conversation made it relevant. “Happy birthday!” A girl with a hint of exotic charisma said as sweetly as possible while sitting on my thigh in a strip club. She claimed to be half Japanese, but I didn’t believe it: she probably said that to offer some intimacy to an Asian. My English must fail me as she mistook that day for my birthday. I didn’t know the rules then – thankfully, I still don’t because I have never visited another one – so I obediently accepted her invitation to a private dance. The dance didn’t impress me visually or arouse me physically, and she probably enjoyed herself more than I did. After the expensive 30 minutes, I left the club without hesitation. I returned to my dorm and cuddled my plush shark to sleep. Technically, things didn’t turn sour because there was nothing to turn.

Twenty was spicy. It wasn’t the Korean food style of savory spiciness. It was the Mexican ghost pepper kind of damned spiciness. My birthday coincided with the Coachella Music Festival, and my roommate planned to go with her girlfriend. Realizing it was my birthday, they brought me to join dinner before leaving the next day. Though it wasn’t on purpose, I felt the brief happiness of being cared for. When they invited me to the Coachella, I tactfully declined. Having dinner is happy, but dancing and doping don’t fit my tastes. Also, I looked forward to a lovely, quiet weekend. It is better than any gifts.

If things went according to plan, this would be my most peaceful birthday. However, if things went according to my life, it would likely go wrong very shortly. When I just started to get sunken into a mellow fantasy, ceaseless ranting, screaming, and things breaking broke into my dream. I could hear every word they shouted, but it’s best to lie in bed and fake sleep. I immorally hoped some pissed waken neighbor would call 911. When the troubles didn’t knock on my door, I preferred to leave them to the professionals to intervene. The doorbell rang when I heard a suitcase throwing out, and later, the apartment returned to slumber. Now, my roommate has another girlfriend with fewer conflicts, and I will move to a studio very soon. I try to keep my life simple, and most of the time, it works. Nonetheless, whenever my birthday approaches, chaos is lurking around the corner with a full-size circus.

Here it is, my 21st birthday, my second adulthood. Chinese believe there are five foundational flavors to construct any dish: bitter, sour, spicy, sweet, and salty. I have experienced the first three, so is it sweet this time? Well, it loses flavors and turns bland.

My girlfriend and I racked our brains to think about a good gift because I doubt even myself doesn’t know what will make me happy. I was also upset to let her down because I’m usually cynical about secular needs. Finally, I suggested an exquisite car model by Amalgam Collection would be good, and magically, she spotted a model signed by Lewis Hamilton, my favorite Formula 1 driver. I leaped into euphoria, imagining opening the package, unable to resist the temptation to gently touch the piece of art.

Again, the twists didn’t stop. The seller informed my girlfriend that the one-off collection was sold the day before her purchase, and the website didn’t update timely. It was the last straw to break me down. At that moment, I was tired of receiving any gifts. Nevertheless, I reluctantly found another acceptable and rather useful choice – a TAG Heuer watch. It is a special edition paying homage to Ayrton Senna, a Formula 1 legend.

I decided to buy it as soon as possible, or I might change my mind. Entering the store yesterday, I was the only customer. I showed a screenshot to the shop assistant, and he brought out the watch on a black velvet plate. There wasn’t much conversation, and I made a fast purchase after trying it. It took me less than 30 minutes from parking to returning to my car. My girlfriend in Nashville was slightly annoyed that I didn’t even take pictures for her before the final purchase. “Lack of participation.” She protested but still reimbursed me. She had a point. Selecting gifts carries more meaning than choosing toilet paper. After all, I felt I should be able to act a bit less thoughtful because it was my birthday.

Being my only good friend in Los Angeles, Martin asked if I wanted to have lunch on my birthday. I accepted his invitation but wondered why it was lunch instead of dinner. Perhaps I’m not at the top of his priority, or maybe he thought I would have parties in the evening. I’d rather convince myself of the latter reason. It is addictive to hold back hints and see who remembers my birthday. Four or five friends send me gifts every year, and I make sure to give back something better. It is a tiny friend circle, but I’m pleased enough. Also, I might have trouble remembering more birthday dates if new candidates appear. 

Martin suggested having sushi for lunch, so I looked for a reasonably priced omakase restaurant. The food was decent, and they gifted us a bottle of sake after Martin said it was my birthday. However, I would never go there again. I tried to start a conversation with the chefs in Japanese, but they ignored my sentences and carried on the English part of our chat. I was confused because my Japanese shouldn’t be so terrible that people couldn’t even identify. It turned out to be the consequence of a “reasonable price.” The chefs are Koreans and don’t speak Japanese. It isn’t shenanigans, but I still felt deceived.

Weirdly, Martin was constantly checking his phone, and I was puzzled when he left the restaurant in the middle of our meal. When I reflected on my potential misbehavior, he returned with a cake, smiling. The secret cake delivery was plotted by my girlfriend, and honestly, I was impressed by how they made it through under my eyes. I laughed heartily for the first time in a long time. The cake has the most idiotic face beyond my imagination. However, I was feeling ambivalent: I didn’t know whether I laughed because of the surprise or the funny face. I sadly concluded the answer was neither: the laugh came from nowhere.

This kind of laughter has no direct reasons, and they will thrive given the right field. As for me, I often feel an unbearable urge to laugh when I’m walking on the Bruin Walk after classes. I try hard to keep my usual poker face so I won’t be seen as a freak. Sometimes, when the urge is too strong, I have to take out my phone and pretend to be looking at something funny. The laughter comes fast and goes fast, like my birthday. Ultimately, it leaves me in the same emptiness where it is generated.

I suppose this reveals the terrifying truth of life: live and then die. Simple as that. The only thing between them is the inexplicable laughter. We work, we think, and we fuck. They all lead to the laughter covering the void beneath the road of our lives. 21 grants me the admission to a lot of new adult-exclusive laughter, but it is more terrifying to realize that I’m closer to my thirties than my childhood. Birthdays are mile markers next to the highway of life. They distract us from the asphalt before our eyes, hiding the final destination. Because if we think and question too much about the destination, it disappears. In fact, it never exists. Birthdays don’t have any meaning, so I stop trying to make them unique.

Here I am, in my apartment. I carry the birthday cake, a Cartier shopping bag because I lost my ring earlier, and a bag of jasmine rice to feed myself. I store the cake in the refrigerator, hoping my roommate doesn’t find out it’s my birthday, and return to my room. While waiting for the other surprise this evening, I think about dropping a Math class I hardly understand at the last minute before the midterm exam this Friday.