Yeah, it's my farkin birthday.
I actually kind of forgot about it this year, being that I'm busy like a hooker bee on honey day and on account that I'm turning the regrettable age of thirtyfreakingnine.
In honor of the occasion, I'll sing you the song I sing my cat, Millie, on a near-daily basis.
(Imagine this in the key of G and sung in a castrato-falsetto voice)
"Her name is Millie,
she is so silly,
if she were a pickle she'd be dilly,
if she were a movie she'd be Free Willy,
if she were a horse she'd be a filly,
if she were a landscape she'd be hilly,
if she were a criminal she'd be kind of killy,
if she was a president's brother she'd be Billy,
if she were a flower she'd be a lily,
if she were cheap fabric she'd be quite pilly,
if she was a feather she'd be quilly,
if she was a Valley girl she'd be all "Really?"
if she was an actress she'd be Meg Tilly,
if she were any cuter I'd eat her for dinner. Yup."
Now, it's time to put on my party hat and display the appropriate attitude befitting a misfit 39 year-old who would rather be scratching her ass with a rose bush than having another damn birthday.