It's My Party, Dammit!

Suzanne Blais is romping around town in a blue tiara and a pink suede skirt trying to salvage the rest of her birthday. Wish her a happy birthday at [email protected]

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Do you remember when you were a kid and 20 seemed so old? I can't believe that today is my twentieth birthday. Twenty. Gawd. It nearly ruined my friend's whole summer when he turned 20. He was actually depressed for several weeks. Twenty means all kinds of responsibility and the fact that you're going to have to start making something out of yourself. Not once missing a major sporting event on television for the past two years is no longer a fun fact, it just makes you a loser.

I used to think that as a 19-year-old, I had it pretty together - I have a job, I have yet to fail out of school or be arrested for stealing tuna or something. Overnight, however, I've become this 20-something who eats cereal three times a day and lacks direction to anywhere other than McDonald's or any establishment that serves beer, Fat Slice included. Lost is my ability and freedom to do all kinds of stupid things, either in a drunken state or stone-cold sober, and blame it entirely on the naiveté of youth.

When I was a kid, I dreamed that when I was 20 I'd own my own house. Now I don't even own a bed. My furniture currently consists of lots of milk crates and anything else I can steal from my local grocery store or find on the street. This ain't no "shabby chic," it's more like "starving, dirt po' college student." Send money, Mom!

And, speaking of finding furniture on the street, three of my friends are currently augmenting their income by taking stuff left out on the curb and selling it back to unsuspecting people. One of them likes to make up stories like, "My grandma gave me that chair right before she was hit by the bus ..." That way, they are always assured to get full price. Would you want to bargain with someone whose grandma met her maker on the front of an AC Transit bus?

So, in honor of my twentieth birthday, I'm going to talk about whatever I damn well please. Not that it not being my birthday has ever stopped me before. I was never really thrilled with Berkeley, but now I'm in love with the place because of the fact that I can get a column and talk about anything I want or think is necessary to bring into the public forum. Like mini-backpacks. Who are you people? These are not OK. And I don't care if it does say "Kate Spade" on it. What can you carry in there? Nothing!

But getting back to me and my column, can you believe they gave me Friday? It's the very best day of the week! Sometimes. Some Fridays you wake up on a floor and wonder, "How did I get here? Whose ceiling is this?" And just when you think you may have outsmarted the hangover gods this time, a dark cloud descends over your day, you feel like you might just curl up and die and you vow never, ever to do that to yourself again. At least until game day.

You know what? I'm just going to stop and pause right here. It's my damn birthday and I'm sitting at The Daily Californian writing this column. What the hell? (Not that this isn't a lovely place to be, folks. But spell my name right this week, OK?) Not to mention the fact that I lost my Visa card last week in the middle of nowhere and it still hasn't come in the mail yet. I don't get paid until tomorrow so I am broke-ass on my birthday. I will need to solicit beer money on my birthday. How does that make me feel? I should be sunbathing and sipping a margarita right now.

Even though it is my birthday, I am going to give you guys out there a gift - the gift of hooking up. It has come to my attention that some of you may not have had a night to remember (or forget, as the case may be). We're in college, dammit; do you think we are here to learn? No! So put down your molecular models for a minute and follow Suzanne's Guide to Gettin' Some. Because everyone should get some on their birthday, even that guy who smells up my 300-person anthro lecture.

Suzanne's Guide to a Night Full of Trouble:

1. Wardrobe check: Guys - Jeans, clean T-shirt, preferably without holes or the words "Big Johnson" or "No Fear" on it. Girls - If you've got it, flaunt it; if not, get a booth.

2. Have a drink and survey the scene. Surveying the scene is very important or else you might end up talking to that sketchy guy/girl from chem instead of Kyle Boller/that innocent little freshman girl who has no idea what's going on.

3. Invite all of your scandalous friends along - that's why you're friends with them. These people have the uncanny ability to attract trouble and/or people with lax morals. These people have been arrested for things I wouldn't even say in front of my own mother, some of them more than once.

4. Drink some more. Tequila sounds good right about now, doesn't it?

5. Eventually someone will suggest something utterly ridiculous. (If this is not happening, see previous step.) Don't let your pre-med inhibitions get the best of you. Key phrases include "breaking-in," "stealing" and "losing clothing." Contrary to what you might think, this will be a lot of fun.

So have a great time, bottoms-up and Go Bears!


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