Thursday, February 3, 2011
It's here again. My writer's birthday. Hide the liquor!
Ohhh...this one's going to be rough. She's thirty-nine on Saturday.
Every year, around this time of year, she whines and moans about her weight, her hair, her wrinkles and her misspent youth. Isn't she a little young for a mid-life crisis?
Wah,wah, wah. Can you imagine what she'll be like next year? When she's forty?
She thinks she's old? I'm so old, I don't remember the first one hundred years.
She worries about her career? I nearly blew up the universe at my last job. How's that for stress? I was in charge of the welfare of The Energy. How's that for responsibility?
She's worried that she's not a good enough writer. Nonsense! She's a genius! After all, she created me, right?
Happy Birthday to my writer-the woman who gave me existence. Cheer up, Mrs. M-- cause I'm fantastic.
Hmmmm....What do you get for the woman who has me?
Photo by: Idea go