In celebration, I plan to take myself out to a fine supper complete with supple cheeses and delicate wines that dance upon my palate like an inebriated wood nymph.
I will adorn myself in silk, velvet and other luxurious fabrics and gorgeous dresses flown in from the fashion houses of Paris.
Actually that last part is what P. Diddy put on his birthday party invitations as the dress code. I, personally, would like see Daddy Puff cloaked in a gorgeous dress flown in from the fashion houses of Paris. But maybe I'm just bitter because I didn't vote, and P. Diddy didn't kill me.
Let's not complain about trivial things.
When people complain, let's respond with one of these:
a) Well, I'm sorry. This is the way we do things on planet Earth.
b) I'm going to punch you in the ovaries.
c) BALLOON PARADE!!
Anything of these will silence, frighten, or otherwise shut up the offending party.
I've moved my moniter to my nightstand and my keyboard to my bed. My cordless mouse rubs up and down my thigh, shooting wireless toxic rays into my leg. This is the life.
And just in case you forgot:
The lion of love trembled before the python of forgetfulness.
I love you.
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