My Birthday Party - Original Writing

“Happy birthday dear Marley, happy birthday to you!” Of course, my dad just had to go all out and he announced as loud as he could in the house. “13 years ago the famous Marley Jackson was born on June 18th of 1781 and by god was it the best day!” The workers in the house all clapped after my dad's announcement.

“Happy Birthday Honey!” Dad exclaimed while he shook her until she was fully alert. She lies there in her twin sized bed under her floral blanket gazing at her ceiling, waiting for her dad to disappear.

“Hell of a thing to turn 15, right?” he asks, a smirk on his face. I nod. “Ari, about the runes-”

Imagine spending weeks or multiple months planning the right thing to give to your significant other on their birthday. However, when you present them with your gif. You receive malicious comments rather than gratuity from him or her. This leaves you heartbroken and maybe even angry. Katharine Brush writes in her short story, “Birthday Party” about a birthday party gone awry. She explains the events of the evening and even sympathizes with the woman.

In “Birthday Party”, by Katherine Brush, a married couple is depicted as having a pleasant night out for the husbands birthday, but the short story is turned around when the husband is unaware of his wife’s love. Brush builds the story through portraying the wife as the one who cares more about their relationship rather than the husband. The woman’s caring and expressive gesture for her husband's birthday was ruined with his unpleasant scold. After the cake was served and the commotion settled down the man whispered “some punishing thing” to his wife, which caused her to weep “heartbrokenly and hopelessly.” The “punishing” words display the harshness that the husband holds towards his wife, is enough to make her cry “hopelessly.” How the

In the revised essay, the overall intent of the Katherine Brush was changed from “conveying the theme of selfishness” to a more concise “showcasing the detrimental effects of unhealthy relationships”. This change helped make the essay more solid as the text supports this new idea better and

“Iris, don’t tell me you forgot it is your birthday today.” Sienna had said slightly giggling.

She tightens the belt on her pink robe before sitting on the edge of my bed, curling one leg on the bed before resting the gift and envelope beside her. “I know, but this time it's different. You're here with me, not with them.”

Harold Pinter’s The Birthday Party is a play which sheds light on the pathology of abjection and violence both physical and verbal and its effect on its victim - Stanley- the protagonist of the play. Stanley is an artist who has isolated himself from a totalitarian state or organization for reasons left undisclosed in the play by Pinter. Since Pinter as a Jew grew up during the time of the Holocaust and the Second World War, Stanley seems to represent the author’s existential anxiety. It can be assumed that the fear of the materiality and fragility of identity and existence caused by totalitarian states and social pathologies like War, Holocaust, poverty, racial discrimination or any human rights abuse causes Stanley to become paranoid and

“Come on Denise and Becca, we’re going to late,” my dad said while getting my brother out of the baby blue walker. We ran to car excited with the thought of cake in our minds. I went in after my sister, sitting in my booster seat waiting for my dad to buckle me in while my mom puts my brother in his car seat. As we got to Peter Piper Pizza, I knew I was going to have a blast with all the games, the food, and most importantly the cake. There were balloons and decorations everywhere, my mom holding my hand as we were walking to where my cousin's party was.

Steve and Gregg were in the dining room getting everything set up. Tomorrow was the party and they wanted everything to be perfect. It was how their father would have wanted it. They set up the decorations and got candles and silverware out and ready. Willard and crew cleaned the dining area so well, you could eat off of the floor. Of course no one was going to, but it was still possible.

When I was around eight years old, my mother came up with an idea to make my tenth birthday even more special than just the recognition of entering through the gate of double-digit numbers.

“Come on!” screamed my mother, “It’s Christmas, it’s your birthday, wake up!” I climbed down the ladder from the top bunk and ran over to the Christmas tree. I sat down and picked up a hot, steaming cup of hot chocolate that was waiting for me. The smell of chocolate flowed through my nose, and I took a big gulp.

Bruised and beaten, not by accident, I ran. I don’t know where I ran, I just ran. Running was never a thing I had liked to do, but for some reason at this moment I wanted to run, as far as I could possibly run. I ran until my legs collapsed underneath me, until my blistered feet could take no more, until the side of my scabbed face was resting on the damp dirt. The leaves rustled in the wind and the sweet, delectable scent of flowers caressed the field. I made it out alive, beaten, but alive. At this point, I honestly felt that I would rather die than run another step. What a great way to spend my 23rd birthday.

My eighteenth birthday was probably the worst I ever came to know. I expected so much because in some degree I was grown, in the eyes of the law. I wanted everything to be perfect and everyone to be happy. Clarence, my boyfriend, took me out for lunch. We ended up going to a place where his ex-girlfriend worked.