ode angit

Well, Henry Blessing, it's your birthday. Or it was your birthday, it's now One A.M. as I write this and I don't know if you're of the school that draws the line at midnight or not.
Wait, what am I talking about, I know you, your birthday doesn't end, we just go to sleep.

You just turned 29 for the second year in a row, that's a pretty impressive feat. I'm glad that we're getting closer to the same age. And even though I'm more mature than you (ha) you've been beating me at everything my whole life (you were born first, you got to experience the grunge years firsthand, I could never scare you as well as you could scare me, you would nicely clean-up and bandaid my wounds then slap them, you won the cleanest room award that one time) but you're finally starting to slow down and now maybe someday we'll both be 29.

Hey, did you know you're pretty much the best companion for studying bookshelves and squating down in the aisles to taste test a few pages of books.

You're also talented at alliteration.

I don't want to get sappy or anything, but you're my favorite person to share a joke with, to tell stories to, to surmise about the feats of the completely nonfictional Sherlock Holmes, to listen to Miley Cyrus, watch weird movies with Michael Crawford late at night, to name-drop with, to judo chop my back, to sit quietly with, or even to scare me.

So vive la souer ! Many happy wishes to you.

Love,
Marge

P.S. Remember how our closets were connected and we could slip papers to each other through that crack and it wasn't necessary in the least to be sneaky but it was so irresistable? Well, for me it was.