The Birthday Monster is dead. He hath been slain by a coldsore and a lack of planning. All he wanted was to cover his little furry body in sequins and dance around all night like a maniac, but the coldsore came out of nowhere and BOOM, he was lying on the floor, surrounded in a pool of his own glitter, gasping for breath and wondering what the hell happened.
The Birthday Monster thought there was a good, solid plan- pre-drinks followed by a night of amazing music, high on the drug that embarrassing people call 'life'- but as he lay on the floor, meekly calling out for help, he saw The Plan turn its back and disappear into the shadows. His drug dealer did not return his calls.
All grew dark.
Then, as he took his last, ragged breath, the Birthday Monster spied something glittering in the darkness. As it got closer, he thought he could make out a swish of silk, a glint of silver, perhaps a rustle of fringing.
It was the Paris Sales, coming to save him, the Birthday Monster was going to live! He was going to find a teeny tiny, silky sheath dress for his teeny tiny, furry body and a pair of teeny tiny platform wedges for his little clawed feet! He would get a flowery headband and a new lipstick! Yeah, baby- the Birthday Monster was stirring once more and he was getting EXCITED.
But hold on.
The Paris Sales were almost upon him...
Something was wrong.
The shoes weren't the right size, the sheath dress only looked good on the hanger and when you got up close, the headband was tacky and cheap. As for the new lipstick- it didn't look like the right shade and all the bloody useless MAC staff were ignoring him.
The Paris Sales loomed over the Birthday Monster. They raised their ill-fitting, neon-leather gladiator-sandal-clad foot and gave him a hard kick in the face.
The Birthday Monster has gone.
I know Kayt and Olivia will read this and think 'Oh for fuck's sake!' because we are having a birthday sleepover later and they will have to put up with looking at my miserable face all night. Also, tomorrow evening I fully intend to do that thing where I lie on the bed in my underwear with no make-up on and refuse to move until everyone else chooses my outfit, curls my hair and applies my make-up for me.
(I used to get away with that a lot in uni because there were six of us that lived in the same block of flats, so there was always someone who would help me out while I sat there like a life-sized doll. Or a severely disabled Young Adult. Whichever way you want to look at it. I prefer the life-size doll idea. )
Don't worry, I will cheer up. My birthday present to myself this year is a tidy bedroom, so I am going to get cracking and then hopefully when I've finished I'll feel better.
Who knows, perhaps tomorrow the Birthday Monster will have miraculously risen from the dead. He is just like Jesus Christ, except more fun.
I might draw a picture of the Birthday Monster to put off tidying up my room.
Ok, here is my picture of the Birthday Monster. Yes, he is wearing a cloak. It's fringed.
I've also done a a picture of him after the evil coldsore, lack of planning and shit Paris Sales have finished with him:.
A sad day for us all. His little hat has fallen off.
There is a now a ridiculous thunderstorm raging around outside my window, it's raining so much my bed is wet. I know I should probably shut the window but... can't be arsed. I think I'll just sit here and watch it get rained on. Look how much rain there is!
Wrote this post over a hour ago, have since had an unexpected nap. Guess I won't be tidying my room then. FUCK'S SAKE.