Sorry, You're Probably Going to Die On Your Birthday (But I Can Save Your Life)

INSIDE: 1 x invite to my birthday and the secret to getting everything you want

Jul 09, 2024

Did you know that you are statistically more likely to die on your birthday than on any other day? 🎂

This is especially true if you celebrate by juggling chainsaws or enjoy asbestos icing on your cake.

Outside of these risk-raisers, the Birthday Effect is a real phenomenon, with the chances of dying on your birthday increasing by nearly 14%.

Shakespeare died on his birthday. Ingrid Bergman, too. I’m the opposite. I was born on my birthday.

Speaking of candles and cake, here’s a short story about how my life changed on my 7th birthday, plus a simple takeaway to help you feel in total control of that awesome life of yours.

Image I made on Canva of Big Willy (get your mind out of the gutter)

You’re invited to my 7th birthday party 🎉

I haven’t mastered time travel yet (though I can drink 14 shots of whisky and wake up in the future), so it will be tough for us to arrive at the party together.

My 7th birthday was in the 90s, which means you’ve missed it by roughly 28 years.

I don’t make dozens of fake emails to regularly claim free one-month Grammarly trials for nothing, though. I do it because I’m a writer, so let me use my words to take you back to a simpler time…

I was turning 7 (which is very common on a 7th birthday), and life was good. Damn good. Of all my gifts, the best was a Ninja Turtles backpack and matching hat.

Donatello-themed, of course.

Oh, you think Leonardo is the coolest Ninja Turtle? You’re wrong.

Heavy is the head that wears the crown. Leonardo is the leader, so he’s probably stressed half to death. He spends all his time coming up with plans and doing media interviews. It’s no way to live.

But not my boy Donatello.

He’s got that sweet bō staff to swing around. No ooze-infused mutant uses a weapon that phallic unless he’s a total lady killer. Donatello is the ~~man~~ turtle.

Facts don’t care about your feelings. Let’s get back to the party.

Friends surrounded me, and when you’re seven, everyone is your friend.

You like cartoons, too? New friend. 🥳
You like eating cereal, too? New friend. 🥳
You like Leonardo best out of all the Ninja Turtles? Go fuck yourself. 🖕

Like I said, almost everyone is your friend.

Image loved by all sane people who know Donatello is the Top T

I don’t need to tell you (BUT I’M GOING TO), this party was a banger. We played party games, had lolly cups, and even found time to pin the tail on the weird-looking cow (my mum couldn’t draw a donkey, OK?).

This was a milestone year for me because I’d started to notice girls for the first time.

In previous years, I’d held strong anti-girl views:

“Girls are gross. I am NEVER having a girlfriend.”

- Alexander (Age 6)

As a mature 7-year-old, I was refined, classy, and cultured. I could see that holding hands with a girl wouldn’t necessarily result in cross-contamination of girl germs. There was merit to these strange creatures, and I was a fool for being so blind.

Channelling this “new” me, I sent a party invite to the cutest girl in school.

Her name was Emma*.

🦘 CULTURAL DETOUR

In Australia, a strict party rule must be adhered to. I’ve learned this may NOT be a global thing. If you’re at a birthday party Down Under, and the cake-cutting knife comes out dirty, you must kiss the nearest girl. It’s borderline law.

Does this exist around the world? If you have heard of this birthday party rule, let me know 👇

It came time to cut the cake…

As a 7-year-old, the chance to hold a sharp knife in front of a room full of people was a thrill.

“Watch me throw this knife in the air and catch it.”

*SMACK*

Mum’s hand was hard as a granite and quick as an eel. Fine, I’ll cut this generic-brand chocolate mud cake, and we’ll all be on our way. You’ll have dessert, and I’ll have the first romantic moment of my young life.

I pressed the knife deep. Hard, too. (*Note to self: tone it down, Alexander.)

Feeling the knife reach the plate, I pulled that bad boy out at a truly idiotic angle. It was absolutely dripping with chocolatey goodness. The knife was dirtier than an Only Fans inbox, but the work was done.

The ancient party code had been invoked. We brave souls, we mere mortals, had no alternative but to oblige.

Image forged in the heart of Mount Partylympus

Smiling broadly, I looked around the room for Emma, the schoolmate I’d personally invited… but she was nowhere in sight.

I wondered if she was jamming a tail up the butthole of the weird-looking cow (my mum wasn’t artistic, but she was anatomically accurate), but I had no answers.

With no Emma in sight, I planted a kiss on my mum’s cheek to placate the Party Gods. We’d honoured the sacred code and soon got stuck into a game of ‘Throw the Orange into the Milkcrate’, which seemed like a creative game at the time.

Now, I realise it was because throwing parties for me and my four brothers was expensive, and my parents still wanted us to have fun, which makes me love and appreciate them even more than I already do.

With the party winding down, I didn’t get my first kiss. There was no romance to be had, but I wasn’t complaining. I had sugar in my bloodstream, a floor full of presents, and a party to enjoy.

Life really was good.

That birthday party was almost three decades ago

I’m more mature now (the bar is low compared to a seven-year-old, but still). I drink green tea. I pay for a Spotify premium account.

I’ve become the man my parents raised me to be.

Speaking of the folks, I recently spent time with my mum, and she revealed something that left my jaw on the floor—something I don’t know if I can forgive.

It turns out something happened on my 7th birthday, something she had kept secret from me for over two decades.

We’d been strolling down Memory Boulevard (it’s across town from Memory Lane) when she revealed:

“I have a funny story about your 7th birthday. Emma, the girl you invited, approached me before you cut the cake and asked if she could stand next to you when the knife came out.
Can you believe that? She wanted a bloody kiss! The cheek of her. I told her to leave you alone and let you play with your friends.”

…

Take your shock, multiply it by your surprise, and that’s what I felt. You won’t find a more traitorous betrayal in any sonnet, play or poem written by the bard himself.

A “What If?” life flashed before my eyes

I could have been somebody. I could have been a contender. I could have been a star!

At seven years old, I had a chance to land one on the lips, and my flesh and blood snatched it away.

After leaving mum’s house in a fit of rage (making sure I picked up my fresh laundry and grabbed as much food from the pantry as I could carry), I turned to Instagram.

SEARCH BAR: Emma 🔍

It didn’t take long to find her.

She was married. Two kids. One had a weird haircut. The other looked like it ate too much glue as a baby. She had a two-bedroom house next to the highway, a husband with a mullet, and a welcome mat that said, ‘Santa. Please Stop Here.’

It’s July, so I don’t know if that’s meant to be a joke.

But that could have been my life!

That could have been my highway. My mullet. My idiot kids.

I thought about reaching out to her, but I let it go. I’d lost her. I was so close, a mere 28 years too late (which is close in the cosmic scheme of the universe). And it was all because of my mum.

Can I forgive her? Should I forgive her? Would I forgive her?

Honestly, it’s too early for reconciliation (though I may change my tune when I drop off this week’s laundry and raid the fridge for leftovers).

At least I still have my kick-ass Donatello backpack and hat to make me feel better.

Truth time: Life doesn’t run on your schedule

Would having my first kiss at seven years old have been nice?

Absolutely.

Considering I’d go on to be so spectacularly unsuccessful with women that the Grim Reaper himself would give me a second chance at life when he realised I’d never seen a naked woman and was at risk of dying a gold-star virgin at 20.

But that wasn’t the way things worked out.

I’m not really mad at my mum because she hasn’t changed the course of my life. She’s one of countless actors gracing the stage with me — but I’m the lead.

The problem is that it’s incredibly easy to get trapped in negative thinking when life doesn’t go as you hoped.

Maybe you didn’t land the dream job, you’re not in the financial place you hoped, or you were cruelly gifted a Leonardo-themed backpack and matching Ninja Turtles hat.

When these things happen, you might even start blaming others. This can help explain away bad things, which relieves pressure and reduces friction. But refusing to accept accountability puts you at risk of becoming a passenger in your own life.

If you get stuck thinking your life results from other people’s choices, you stand at the world’s mercy instead of confidently carving through the jungle with a sword forged from pure agency.

Worse, science has shown negative thoughts literally reshape the way your brain operates. Maladaptive thinking builds highways that carry negative thought patterns and habits.

Your brain experiences what’s known as synaptic pruning. Since you’re not using the same neural pathways, the brain shuts ‘em down. Happy highways close. Your mind becomes a choking gridlock of negative self-talk. Seen through lenses fused to your retina, the world is responsible for every wrong, injustice and pain.

The secret to managing life’s unwanted gifts — and you’ll receive plenty of them — is to reframe how you view them.

I’m going to save your life right now

I can’t change the fact that you’re statistically more likely to die on your birthday than on any other day.

Don’t have a party on the edge of a cliff.
Don’t ask for a set of antique hand grenades.
Don’t go nuts if you have a peanut allergy.

These are the best tips I can offer.

What I can do is remind you of the power of perspective.

Life isn’t a connected string of actions as much as it is reactions.

You can point yourself at the right career, person or lifestyle. Still, your ability to move towards these things depends on how you react to obstacles.

When you filter everything that happens to you through this understanding, life stops feeling so unfair. Instead of something external that is forced upon you, life becomes a choice.

I wanted to have my first kiss when I was seven, and I didn’t want to get leukemia when I was twenty — but that’s life, and it left me with two choices.

CHOICE #1: I could sink into anger and resentment by believing life was the sum of my actions and, therefore, a shitty life of missing out on smooches and getting cancer was my fault.
CHOICE #2: I could make my life after leukemia awesome and find humour in the tough stuff by believing that life was the sum of my reactions and, therefore, an awesome life was my creation.

I chose the latter.

Every day, you’re faced with the same choice.

You have the power to create a kick-ass, joy-filled, and meaningful life not through your actions but through your reactions.

Said with compassion, it doesn’t matter what you’re enduring if you’re able to choose what happens on the other side.

So, what type of life are you choosing to live?

I can’t wait to find out. ✨

With love,

New World Porter

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