Some people hate their birthdays. I LOVE MINE.

It's my birthday today. A fresh 36 years old. And I fucking LOVE it. My birthday is the one day out of the hair that I give myself to be happy the whole day, if nothing else because I beat that bastard with the scythe one more race around the Earth.

Tick, tock, the clock is always counting down. And riding out one more twist of the second hand feels amazing.

And nothing feels as good as cheating Death. Especially the last year. The deal I signed with the Devil erases itself one more time.

Didn't think I'd make it this far. Hell, I'd didn't think I'd make it past thiry. And there's no saying a wayward semi-truck will go off roading, ending this day with me being smashed road hamburger along a concrete divider lining the road.

But goddamnit, I made it 36 years, body and mind still functional. A heart that finds new walls to smash through, a heart that always seems to find just one more person to take residence in.

That's a hell of a goal and I'm damned proud of it.

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I beat that bastard with the scythe one more race around the Earth.

Funny way of looking at it, but have your way if you feel like it.
I have you a small present, but I'm terrible about mailing shit, so hopefully you'll get it before Christmas. The main holdup right now is finding a good sized mailing package.

We totally wanted to visit this year, too, but with my dad passing, I feel kinda stuck with his business. Plus there'd be Amanda's dialysis schedule and your own fluctuating health to consider. I'd also kinda like to get a little more saved up, too. Perhaps next summer things will be a little more stable.