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Birthday Happy, Andrew

I don’t mean to toot my own horn but since no one else seems to want to, I’m left to celebrate my birthday via blogging. 

Today I am twenty-four years old. Older than Super Nintendo, younger than the World Trade Towers. 

I’ve got more years on me than Mickey Rourke’s chin, but less than Cher’s tits.

Twenty-four years. Woopity doo.

I burst through the vagina at exactly 4:44 PM, February 16th, 1985 (consult your Almanacs). I was greasy and irey: thespians will recognize this as foreshadowing. A welcomed changed from months in the womb, I was a stand-out example of what a baby should be.  What a baby can be.

Did you bring a coat? Good, cause I’m about to take you on a journey.

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