Your Daddy wakes you up with a jubilant “Happy Birthday!”. You’re four years old and today you are king; it’s your day. Everybody is friendly and congratulatory, and even your brothers are being nice. The whole neighborhood of kids will be coming over to eat cake and party hearty, four year old style.
Years later and it’s that time of year again, for the communal birthday. You and your brothers creep downstairs at four in the morning to see what Santa Claus has left under the tree. There is magic in the air, and home baked chocolate smothered cookies in your hands.
Years later and the pizza boy is knocking on the door. A frost is on the screen door, and a fresh fluffy snow has carpeted the lawns, streets, and trees. “Thanks man, and Merry Christmas!” You give the guy a $5.00 tip, and he replies with a head wobble in a thick Indian accent, “Thank you! Merry Christmas!”. The spirit of Christmas is everywhere, and we all feel it. We are one big generous community.
Years later and you wake up beside your girl. She puts her head on your chest and you hold her ass, enjoying the gift of her titties. You whimsically count them; “One,” then reaching for the other “and another one,” then reaching back again “and another one!”. Like for Sesame Streets The Count, counting titties never grows old. She gives you a kiss, then goes upstairs to make you breakfast. When she hands it to you your heart swells with affection and appreciation. “Happy birthday!” she says. But she always says that. And you always feel as if it really is your birthday.