So, you've made it another year, huh? Impressive. Well, impressive if you consider your festering stagnant life clicking over another year an accomplishment. I bet you woke up today feeling a little bit excited still, huh? Despite all your misanthropic bullshit, a little part of you - that little part that dime-store psychologists like to refer to as the "inner child" - perked up a bit. "Hey, today is my birthday!" you thought.
Well no one fucking cares. That's why this email is automated. It's completely impersonal just like every other relationship in your terrible, worthless, and now one-more-year past-it's-prime life.
So go ahead, eat your cake, play with your new iPod knockoff, try on your new fucking sweater while you add another notch on the social odometer of age that we use to validate your existence. You gonna go out and drink tonight? Shouldn't you put some of that money in savings? Fuck, you don't have many working years left, pal. The whole "Live Fast, Die Young" mentality doesn't fit into the picture so much anymore when you've got man-tits and you're putting Dr. Scholl's in your Crocs; your time to quit while you were ahead is over.
Anyhow, Happy Birthday.
Jesus Loves Doug Stanhope