The big Two-Eight

Happy Birthday to me!
Happy Birthday to me!
Happy Birthday dear Jaaayymmeeee!
Happy Birthday to me!

Thanks go to all those who wished me a happy birthday as of this publishing. In order, from first to most recent are:

Tracy, Adrienne, Dawn, Gaby, Zanelle, Becca, Neveen, Sergeant Lynn, Billie Jo, Dale, Andrea, Anastasia, Nina, Ana Paula, Sergeant Martinez, Kathleen, Sergeant Hill

Honorable mention goes to Klimas, Justin, and Mr. Mack for mentioning the impending approach of said birthday, but not actually wishing me well on this special day.

It may seem like I know so many women who are eager to wish me a happy birthday, but in all actuality, my buddies are not required to acknowledge the date with much fanfare and celebration in accordance with Guy Order 1700.1E. I am not holding them accountable.

Tonight, as I drown my sorrows/celebrate life with mini pitchers of Labatts Blue and watch miles of thigh parade on stage with Canadian bills sticking seductively from garter belts, I reflect on the past twenty-eight years with a solemn reverence of sorts. There’s been a lot of water under my bridge since 1976, when my birth was a precursor to our nation’s bicentennial anniversary. There were more than a few times when even the ripe old age of 21 seemed out of reach. But times change, and taking a long walk off a short pier, despite what some people tell me, is not in the best interests of my future.

So on this day of celebration I congratulate myself on another year clean and sober. Well, clean anyways, and free of the aguish and mental burdens that befall other balding, soon to be middle aged men with potbellies of my age. Keep your chins up boys, both collective and personal, get out and get some exercise, and celebrate life every moment closer to thirty.

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