dog years: I don't believe in writer's block and I don't believe in you
Prologue: My birthday isn't today, so I'm still thirty three. Wait. Right, thirty three.
My wife is thirty four. But, I'm not going to talk about her or her birthday, which isn't today either.
So a quick summary: Neither Jason, nor April were born today, thirty three or thirty four years ago. And April, Jason's wife is not the topic of this post.

Second Paragraph: I have no style. In 1989, when I was in Auringen, Germany, which is ten kilometers outside Wiesbaden, which is fifty kilometers from Frankfurt, a fraulein I thought attractive told me I dressed like a little boy. I was eighteen.

Summary: High School boys have the best dope.

Third Paragraph: The first day of Spring is not the same day as the beginning of Daylight Savings. So stop calling me and talking to me on the phone with your mouth full of dinner.

Summary: I need two hundred and fifty dollars for copies of my medical records.

Fourth Paragraph: I have a hernia.

Summary: I'm serious. I have a hernia. It hurts.

Fifth Paragraph: I wish I could have reverse hernia surgery on my writer's block.

Summary: Reason? Because I have incredible pressure on my typing area, and only the skin is holding it in.

Sixth Paragraph: I could be a genius if I hadn't wasted so much time coveting Corvettes and corduroy O.P. shorts.

Summary: I am a creature of the Summer months. We'll each do a line, then ride our bikes to the pier.

Seventh Paragraph: The world is not my home, I'm only passing through (Waits).

Summary: Of all my blessings Lord, why is it selfish for one to be my words on paper?