Happy birthday, Missus.
Happy birthday to the raddest bass player in Winneconne history.
Happy birthday to the lump in my hotel room bed.
Happy birthday to the only person who makes me laugh every day.
Happy birthday to the woman who plays darts with random Asian men at local bars.
(I just really wanted to put this picture in because her hair looks good. I swear she has a different hairstyle in every photograph.)
Happy birthday to my other half.
Happy birthday to my wife.
She’s going to be quite angry for putting all these pictures of her up, so allow me to suck up for a minute.
If you live to be 122, I still won’t have enough time to get sick of you. You’re that neat.
You’re brilliant and beautiful. You understand everything about me, which is amazing and terrifying at the same time. How you do it is beyond my realm of comprehension.
You didn’t teach me to love and cherish the world. Instead, you chose to mock it right along with me. You let go of my hand only when you stop to point and laugh at someone who deserves it.
You’re cruel and sinister. Sarcastic and razor-sharp. Your standards are so high, nobody could ever meet them. Everyone lets you down, and nobody is worth trusting. You’re just like me.
You keep my socks looking their whitest. You punch me in your sleep. You clap when I breakdance in the living room. You make more money than me. You dye my hair and remind me to make a shopping list.
(The SWEEPS MONTH finale is on the way, along with the best comments of 2005. Sit tight.)