Today is my love, April Ayres-Griffiths’s twenty-ninth birthday. She has one year of freedom left, now, before the thirties start, and her body begins to break down.
I speak, tongue in cheek, of course; I love her very much, and I pray, of course, that her future is a great deal more optimistic. I prepared a birthday lunch for her, earlier this afternoon; we had sausage rolls, tomato noodle soup, and pineapple custard cupcakes.
This evening, the menu will consist of chili, taco chips and, possibly, taquito’s; this assumes that I can grasp the concepts required to construct such a thing. It may end as a ‘noble experiment,’ but I think it’s worth a try.
Later, we will pull out our sofa bed, and snuggle on the floor as we watch movies and eat junk food. April has never seen either Dogma, nor Harold and Kumar go to White Castle, so those are on the agenda.
I hope all of this will make her happy; that is all I want.
Happy Birthday April.