It's Not The Age, It's The Mileage.
Birthdays are meant to be a time of celebration, if not denial at how old we've become since last year. You grow a little bit wiser, and little bit more immature. You discover just how many friends you really have by how many free rounds they buy you, and how evil your friends are depending on how many free rounds they buy you (repeat after me: one tequilla, two tequilla, three tequilla, floor). You bask in the glory of a horde of presents, and then demure and say it's all about the friends.
Today, Melissa (my fiance for those of you just joining this little bit of nowhere, and are too lazy to read the archives) celebrates having survived 22 years of life. This unto itself is impressive since I'm having a damned hard time trying to remember just how old I am.
Come to think of it, I am 23 currently...er, maybe 24...or perhaps I'm 23 after all...um, can I buy a vowel, Vanna?
But back to my wonderful Mel. I honestly wish that your 22 years could have been much, much better, and that today would be cause for you to sit back and laugh yourself silly amongst good friends and family. Alas, I doubt there will be much cause for festive celebration. Even still, know this: if it hadn't been for those 22 years, I wouldn't have a beautiful fiance to drive people to insanity from raving about you night & day (with just a little break around tea-time).
So let it be known around the world that Melissa's birthday is today, and may as many glasses as possible over the course of tonight be raised in her honour. May there be fond memories, best wishes, and a plentitude of "Cheers!" without the next-day hangovers or yarfing.
Happy birthday, Melissa. I love you!
And in other news, I have become most vexed to discover that the nice white shirt I'm currently wearing has some sort of stain or wrinkle that makes my right nipple very obvious. It's a rather difficult thing to describe, save for that my nipples should not be so obvious when I'm wearing this shirt, but for some reason I can suddenly see a circular mark of some kind (almost like a round coffee stain) that is directly over my right nipple and the surrounding areola. It's very blatant, and making me rather paranoid that I'm going to offend someone by showing off my right nipple.
I still remain boggled at how such a thing could happen. Did I sweat too much when I last wore it, specifically around the right nipple? Did the shirt just get wrinkled in a way that makes me believe that God really does have a deranged sense of humour? I don't think I'll ever know the answer, and perhaps there are some things that humanity just is not meant to know....
posted by Phillip at 3:10 PM