Twelve is going to be your last single syllable. It's why i'm so excited to turn sev-en-ty-se-ven.
Seriously though. Happy birthday. Enjoy the music, because two years from now you will hate your original musical opinions. Yet when you listen to those songs, you will feel an odd sense of nostalgia. Unless you regress your memories. That's what I did. It's really the way to go, despite the occasional uncontrollable outbursts of anger, as well as the scary yet oddly familiar dreams of violent occurances.
I would sing happy birthday to you, but someone else bought the rights. It's a true story. That's why restaurants don't sing happy birthday. They sing something else that no one ever bothered to copyright. It's a rather annoying song as well. But i'm gracious and I shall donate my merry spirit to sanspoof.
Happy happy birthday
from all us to you
we wish it were our birthday
so we could party too.
There's no earthly way of knowing which direction we are going. There's no knowing where we're rowing or which way the river's flowing. Is it raining? Is it snowing? Is a hurricane a-blowing? Not a speck of light is showing, so the danger must be growing. Are the fires of hell a-glowing? Is the grisly reaper mowing? Yes, the danger must be growing 'cause the rowers keep on rowing, and they're certainly not showing any signs that they are slowing. AAAGGHHH!!!