Happy Birthday, Sam

My friend Sam—patient indulger of my endless questions and solicitations of his opinion, sublime writer, and general goofball—turned mumblemmphgrumble today. I have no idea what the actual number behind the mumblemmphgrumble is because he is worse than the worst stereotype of an age-shielding woman one could hope to conjure. And I suspect he would be even if it wasn’t fun to pretend that I give a shit what that number is and that I’m irritated he won’t tell me.

All I know is that he’s well older than I, the dodgy geezer.

Happy Birthday, Sam. That is all.

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