This birthday may mark the halfway point of your life, but look on the bright side: You’re finally old enough to drive.
You will be crushed to learn that the Black Sabbath song is titled “Fairies Wear Boots,” not “Aries” as you had long thought. Return all your boots.
The dog next door will speak to you with the voice of Satan, commanding you to bring it the unclean meat which masquerades as bacon but is not bacon.
Tell those smartalecks at work that if they think your job is so easy, they should try inheriting the nation’s third-largest paper-goods manufacturing firm.
Federal investigators sent to the disaster site will find it hard to discount your standing there with a bloody tire iron.
You will not be sure how to take it after you’re described as “the Sherwood Anderson of
It’s not that you’re in a no-win situation; it’s just that
Everyone will be talking about your wonderful personality and kind nature next week, which is customary at funerals.
Your cat does nothing all day but wash itself and play with a sparkly ball, so it seems you’ll have to solve the vicar’s murder all by yourself.
Your field research disproves conventional wisdom, demonstrating that pimping is, in fact, extremely easy.
You will be recognized as the voice of small-town America after getting drunk and singing George Jones songs in the street all night.
You will meet a tall, dark Aquarius who is compatible with you in every way, right down to the unhealthy fixation with Mary Todd Lincoln.
