November Rain

The birthday post is long overdue. In fact, the plan was to write it before November ended. The plan was also to attend all classes and lectures so I wouldn’t have to write 6000 reports and presentations. An unplanned acute overdose of various forms of chilies kicked those plans to the curb while declaring them his bitches.

From the time I was in primary school, I’d been waiting for 11.11.11. You see, my birthday is on the 11th of November, so tiny little me thought it would be the bee’s knees to celebrate my birthday on a date so obviously cool.

Naturally, over time the excitement was less and eventually I didn’t think much of it at all. Until we got to 2011. To be more specific, it wasn’t a big deal until Harikrishnan, the havoc-wreaking mastermind in our circle of friends said, “11.11.11. Hmm..we should make it memorable.”

There’s something you should know about Harikrishnan. He studied at the Royal Military College before entering med school. Boys who study there see things. Things that can never be unseen. And he was planning to make my birthday memorable. I knew it would be a “Dear Diary” sort of memorable; it was going to be a “it was touch and go for a while, but the doctors managed to stabilise her” kind of memorable.

A month prior to my birthday, I got wind of rotten eggs, orange juice (I’m terribly allergic to oranges) and the idea of people throwing 11 things at me. While I personally don’t see the appeal of pelting people with things, especially food, the same cannot be said of my friends.

For one month, I was left to stew in my apprehension. I was duly “rewarded” on my birthday. This was the master plan: 11 things for every 11 in the date. It doesn’t sound like much, but I hear there was practically a committee that sat down and had a meeting to plan this auspicious event. A list was made, for fuck’s sake.

I was not told when what would happen where, just that I should wear clothes that I intend never to wear again. My execution clothes, I called them.

On the 11th, I waited and waited. Then I waited some more. At 11.11 pm, my friends barged into my room, singing “Happy Birthday”, cake in hand. In my mind, the cake was interpreted at my last meal. Man, I was feasting with my firing squad.

After the cake, it was time for my three 11s. I don’t know how much thought was put into the order in which everything was carried out, but I must admit, it was perfect.

First, I was given 11 shots of drinks, not all of it alcoholic and not all of it pleasant. Then, I had 11 different things poured on me in the bathtub. This was smart because if I chundered, it would be easy to clean up and I could have my shower after all the mess was made. The final 11 were gifts from my persecutors. You know, to make me curse them less.

I could tell you how it went, but why do that when I can show you everything?

1. First 11: Shots