Do you ever read a book very slowly, or make your character walk instead of run through a video game, or quietly hope that there’s some kind of plot twist in a movie that would drag it out by another fifteen minutes because you don’t want it to end? Do you ever do that and then realize you are a tremendously egotistical jerkwad who wants to draw things out for everyone else because you value your happiness over theirs?
Because that is exactly what birthdays are like.
It is a day on which the world revolves around you and only you. And if you are not using that to your advantage by making extravagant and ridiculous demands of other people and thereby feeding off their suffering, then you are simply not doing it right. In many ways, this post exists as something educational, something to show you exactly how to work the vast and corrupt mechanics of the birthday system to your advantage.
It might also be me talking about what I got, thereby trying to cast a shadow upon your own lack of joy on May 11th and thusly expounding upon my own delight in your suffering. But that’s pretty much what this post is all about, isn’t it?
Aside from some lovely-looking shirts, the only true present I got was this lovely piece of fan art from Michael Lee Lunsford depicting a sweaty, smelly Kataria.
Pretty intense, right? I thought so. I do love arts of the picture variety, mostly because I can’t do anything resembling it. It’s why I enjoy hanging around webcomics peoples.
But you might be noticing that this is but one present. It’s true that my greed and lust could not be satiated with one piece of art, however awesome. But it is also true that a man of my dignity and poise can no longer be satiated with mere material greed. A man of my peculiar depravities and exuberant disrespects can only be glutted on making obscene demands of people and forcing them to comply.
I sent out many such demands. Let us gather to celebrate those who supported me in this.
First, sent to my good friend, Leanna Renee Hieber...
Dear Leanna,
As you undoubtedly know, May 11th is my birthday. I hope you have been thinking very hard and ferociously about what to get me, as I have frequently done with your birthday. Much to my lament, you never told me what your birthday is on, so I basically decided to make it up and now celebrate it in a solemn, candlelit vigil on the blackest day of December. I then sacrifice a cow.
But this is besides the point.
For my birthday, I would like you to openly and wistfully say on your blog: “If only there were more men like Sam Sykes.” What words come before and after it are up to you.
Verdict?
Next, from my friend, Mark C. Newton…
Dearest Mark,
Did you know May 11th is my birthday? Good. Good. I knew you would. I hope you haven’t gotten me a present yet, because what I think I would really like is, when you are on a panel attended by more than 10 people, if you would say my name and then pause, staring dreamily out into the distance and sigh wistfully.
It will be amazingly awkward and you will feel terrible for doing it. I will appreciate the gesture.
Verdict?
Pending. Those of you who attend Mr. Newton’s panels, see his public appearances, keep a close eye upon him. This is not something I will let go so easily.
And from Ms. N.K. Jemisin?
Dearest Nora,
As you well know, May 11th is my birthday. I trust you have been wracking your brains, trying to figure out what to get me, in a search that has taken you through many J. Crew and Sky Mall catalogues. As I am as proud to be helpful as I am to be your friend, I have come to you with a simple suggestion. For my birthday, I would like for you to take on the nickname of Horace Cameo for a period of one year. Only I will be able to call you this. Anyone else, you can rightly beat up, because it is a silly name.
Do this and I will give you great power.
Verdict?
Hi Sam,
Alas, I must reject your nickname in favor of a better one, which I gave myself a few years ago, but which I cannot tell anyone else or I’ll have to beat *myself* up.
Happy birthday, tho’!
Unfortunately, she is far too clever for my unique blend of masculine charms, devilish phraseology and pleasant bumbling oafishness. And yet, I cannot help but admire such gaming of the system. You win this round, Jemisin.
Next, the bloggers, that routinely disappointing subset of humanity. I posed to my favorite bloggers one request and one request alone…
Make this face:
Verdict?
Two?! AND ONLY TWO?!
The sure-footed stalwartness of Floor to Ceiling Books and Neth Space in doing this cannot be overstated. But as for other people? The feckless Book Smugglers, the irreverent Pat’s Fantasy Hotlist and even my own beloved Crooked Carla looked me in the eye and spat upon my wishes.
For your treasonous ways, you shall make atonement. You shall review Black Halo and, in doing so, use the phrase “Courage Wolf” in a ubiquitous and unassuming manner. Do this or I shall strike you down and become more powerful than you can imagine because winners don’t do drugs.
Despite the treasonous blasphemies of those stated above, it cannot be said I did not have a good birthday. Good art (with the promise of more to come, you smelly artists), lovely cakes and succor from my friends is all well and good. But the crowning jewel? The utmost end of my desires? The following, from a very special friend of mine…
Me to him…
Say aloud in a public venue: “Sam Sykes inspires me.”
Him to me…
Oh, I’ve already done that many times.
Take that, Abercrombie. Take that. Put it over your hearth and hang it as your head hangs.
When your daughters come of age and sit upon your knee before the family, I want them to look at that, hanging there like a shroud above your life. I want them to look at that and ask you: “Daddy, why did you say that?”
And then I want you to weep.
Happy birthday.