I want to die on my birthday, so my life remains an even number

Twelve days late, my birthday festivities finally begin. A birthday brunch, aided by an incoming flight from Kelowna, and the arrival of someone I’d be tempted to call a “college friend”, if I didn’t still have eight months of school to attend to come autumn.

I ate waffles and felt warm as we caught up in the Saturday morning air, and we eventually departed feeling full and ready for an afternoon nap. The evening brought plans that had to be broken in favour of staying in. A surprise performance, an evening of dancing, and a coming home party all went the wayside as I happily settled for a couch and old ‘90s MTV cartoons.

Sunday brought the last birthday wish, as I was led deep into the west end, and arrived at to a red-and-white sign reading words I’d written in reference: Sunday, Bloody Sunday. And that it was, as we drank beer, ate pizza on makeshift cardboard plates, and stared at a wall covered in more of my words, the very best gift I could get.

Each birthday since Manitoba’s legal-binding 18th has grown consistently smaller at a rapid rate. From a rented room in a now closed restaurant in Osborne Village and a party of 50-something for dinner that night, the party dwindled down to just nine the next year. Entering the double digits I doubled up and cashed in on the plus-ones of another Gemini. Then this year, at last legal everywhere, only four others basked in my party-of-five.

But all other numbers aside, with a late birthday officially ended, I still have twenty-one reasons (or more) to celebrate. And that, is more than I could wish for.

What's written on the wall will eventually spill on the floor

The colours mixed into a beer bottle brown

The art is on the wall, we are on the wall

My life, page 62 in the catalogue

A case of the Februarys

Smiles and schoolhouses, sky blue sky

Casing the space

Pizza, beer and whole lot of Sunday

Eventually the words were covered in paint, then torn down till next year

Thick paint waiting to be squished by my fingers

Outside we pushed pennies on train tracks

Mixed media me: a self portrait of how me as a cartoon could look