Eight. Somewhere down the road we learned to get along without killing one another. It was a slow process hashed out over many a long AIM conversation. You’d go into great detail about some subject of great interest to you; I would answer with: “cool," "lol” or “I see.” I’m a man of few words. . . until you piss me off. Four long dormitory years led to four unbelievably short real world years. In that time we learned to live together without killing one another; a much harder task. It’s been a worthy exercise in patience, love and choosing one’s battles very carefully. No one is perfect, including us. We get mad and yell. We get sad and cry. But your faults are my strengths and your strengths are my faults. Ka (life) is a wheel, if I may borrow from my favorite author, and we help each other spin. Eight years I’ve helped celebrate your birthday.
Many of you are probably wondering, “Who’s the guy writing all this sappy shit?” My wife is most likely among you. To doubters I answer: there is no better way to find yourself in the “good graces” of your wife than a public show of affection. If you’re giggling at my sad attempt at innuendo, thank you. Sometimes I lose track of life and stop appreciating all I have because of all I don’t. I'm pretty lucky. I managed to convince a very attractive, young, intelligent, athletic, mostly sane woman to put up with me. And that’s really what it’s all about. We get so little time here and we tend to spend it bitching about what we haven’t done or don’t have. This is a good day to remember what I do have. If civilization broke down today and I lost all my possessions and home, at least I’d have my wife to help me lop off the zombie heads. And that’s alright by me.
It is your Birthday; I love you.
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