My mother tells all of her friends that for my first birthday she bought me a Bulls Onesie. My parents really like basketball and Chicago in the early 90s was the time to really like basketball. It wasn’t really a gift for me, I was one after all. She brought me to game night parties as a good luck charm.
Giving a thoughtful gift to a one year old must have feel like shouting into the void. They are never going to tell you what they think, if they like it or dislike it, think it’s funny, think it’s strange, think it’s interesting: it’s going to drool, fall over and play with your hair.
Every year my sister gives my mom a list of things that she wants for her birthday–my mom says she prefers this, my sister says she doesn’t like surprises. My mom says that she just wants to give us something that we will like, I tell her I will like whatever she gets me. Last year she gave me fake tampons that you can fill with alcohol (or other things) to sneak into venues, gigs and family events. I will never use them but I show them to everyone who comes to my house. My sister will probably never get smuggling tampons for her birthday.
It’s really great giving all of this to you every week. We don’t even make most of the things in here. We just polish them up so you have the opportunity to open something on your hopefully in-semester birthday (or in the New Law toilets) that you never thought you could possibly want. There are some cool things in here, things you can’t Google to find. There is some funny brain detritus. There are probably a few half-lies. There is a cartoon of a steam-operated dildo. There are some hard truths–apparently single moms play Neopets and the public healthcare system fucks over the mentally ill. Anyway, Happy Birthday–here is a lot of things you didn’t ask for.