On my eighth birthday, when the principal pulled me out of
class, I felt like death, awaiting whatever punishment I must have earned.
When she told me about the car crash, my parents, well that
made the earlier death feel like joy in comparison.
On my eighteenth birthday, when Priscilla pulled me to a
quiet corner of the party, I felt amazing, as I knew she’d finally decided to
sleep with me.
When she dumped me, that felt like death all over again.
On my twenty-eighth birthday, I actually felt death, for a
few seconds.
The other two were worse.
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