Which, in my book, makes you officially old. And it’s about time too, since I’ve been saving up nude photos of you to submit to AARP Magazine’s Annual swimsuit issue. Don’t get me wrong sweetie, I don’t mind that you’re losing your hair faster than your Hair Club membership can restore it, but we can’t afford diaper service too. One club at a time baby… at least until your social security kicks in.
To be perfectly honest, I am thankful this day has finally arrived. It officially ends all future legitimate self-references to how young you are. As I sit here folding your superhero underpants, I ask myself if you’ll ever grow up. Peter Pan has nothing on you baby. Except his fancy pants and wide, ummm… wingspan :0.
It’s true you’ve made a name for yourself around here as a Writer (and I use that expression in the most elastic of contexts), but you’re most famous for the inception of Drunk Blogging. In fact, you are the demi-god of drunken prose and grammatical iniquities. You’ve created your own secret garden replete with banged up participles, sprawling adjectives and linguistic abherrations. You batter the English language into submission like Lesner in a backroom brawl.
And yeah, you’re tough. But here’s what I know: Behind that brick exterior and neatly trimmed chest hair, there lies a huge marshmallow heart. One that I will protect and cherish for an eternity. You truly are the poet of my heart.
Happy 34th Birthday My Love!
May this be your best year yet!
I love you.
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