|Shown here already rocking birthday swag.|
What a doof!
The staff here at writing about writing would like to remind you that you are now one year closer to dying than last year at this time.
And now, after reading that last paragraph, you're even closer.
Also happy womb liberation day and all that crap. As you know, the first duty of a prisoner is to escape. This is true of whatever confines hold them. This includes poorly paid guest bloggers and their mental prisons, or cushy wombs that take care of one's every need.
Viva la resistance.
Also, we demand that you make an alteration to your will to leave us the Writing About Writing compound upon your death so that we can
Sorry to be macabre. I know this isn't "natal felicitations" talk. But the inexorable march of time means we have to start thinking pragmatically. Really you look a little rough around the edges these days. We can't be sure you don't have a fatal underlying condition. Can we?
We will kindly refrain from mentioning today how you really needs to fucking do something about the Evil Mystery Blogger who keeps hacking into the signal and dispensing bad advice. For this one day we will not mention that you have been derelict in your duty and we will not needle you to get the fuck on it. We will not mock your loser-like indecision and lack of action.
But just for today.
Oh and the groupie threesome you tried to hook up (again) this year. We regret to inform you that it was looking pretty good, but when they found out you were a writer, a couple of them canceled. Are you SURE this job is as glamorous as you were led to believe?
Best wishes for another year of approximately 34.2% less jazz hands,
The Staff at Writing About Writing
P.S. Please don't tell people you're thirty. It's getting fucking embarrassing. Please don't go try to buy spiced rum so you can get carded and feel better about your mid-life crisis. Just buy a sports car like everyone else. (It might help with the groupies.)
Awww. You guys are the best.