27

Tomorrow is my birthday. I find that after age 21 and the obligatory tequila-soaked campus bacchanal, having a birthday is like watching the odometer roll over to 50,000 in your Corolla. You observe the milestone with interest. You're grateful the car's made it this far, but you don't feel the need to tie streamers to the antenna or anything.

Jon, however, treats each one of my birthdays as if I've just been expelled from my mother's womb on a wave of primordial slime. It's nice! I want to get a sign for our curb that says: "CAUTION: DEF HUSBAND." Because he's so def. He's deffer than the Lep.

So as of tomorrow, I'm a 27 year-old non-gravid Earth female. Ten years ago I was...I don't know. I have no memory of my 17th birthday, though I do remember my 18th vividly. I'm sure I was a very unpleasant teenager. I remember peacocking around in skimpy outfits, drinking, using extremely offensive language, pretending to ass-bang my male friends whenever they bent over and...wait, I haven't changed at all!

(Yes, that is an extremely obese cat lurking behind me. Yes, we've tried altering his diet. No, I don't know why he's that fat. Yes, he's happy. No, he can't effectively clean himself, but the other cat helps out in that regard. Yes, he's ultra-snuggly. Yes, we call him "Jabba the Gutt," "Ham Parsons," "SuShi Fats" (don't ask) and Tummaroo." I love him.)