Yesterday I was fifty-three years old. Today I am fifty-four. It is a reasonable guesstimate that I have roughly thirty-or-so years left in me before I kick the bucket and return to a state of non-being.
Generic thanks to all well-wishers whether you mean it or not. Special thanks to my mother who ejected me from her womb that fateful day in 1959 so I could enjoy this wonderful life, and also to my wife Marianne who continues to stick it out with me. She could have done much better.
Fun fact: For the next 10 months I’ll be fifty-four and she’ll be forty-five. That probably is interesting only to those who subscribe to the not-even-pseudo-science of numerology, but I thought I’d mention it anyway.
My wife Marianne is 44 years old today. She’s not as good looking as she was when we first met, but I’d still hit it (if could find my Viagra). I have dirty pictures of her, but she said not to put them on the Internet or she would withhold sex for the rest of my life. How ’bout this bitch, if you can get it up, we can have sex any time you want. Happy birthday, sugar pumpkin!