Happy Birthday to Me

Today is my birthday. I'll be the insignifcant 2 - 7 (which added together equals 9, which is a multiple of 3, which is a prime number). I wasn't going anywhere with this. I just got distracted.

In lieu of gifts, please purchase Einstein Sings: A Play in No Acts. Better yet, tell me you want to produce the play. That would be an awesome gift!

After all, this is the big 2-7, a birthday with no more significance than, say, belly-button lint.

Speaking of becoming 27, there is a phenomenon or theory or whatever called the "27 Club". Evidently there is a running roster of famous people who die within the age of 27. Most of the people in this list were famous rock stars or some other similar musician-types who dabbled heavily in drugs and promiscuity, many during the '60s and '70s (decades infamous for their drug-laced cultures). I think perhaps that at age 27, after several years of basically murdering themselves physiologically from the inside-out, their bodies or brains couldn't take any more abuse.

Granted, I am not nor ever will be famous (at all). I have no proclivity to the various activities the 27 Clubbers obviously suffered from to their demises. In fact, for my 27th birthday, I'll be working, going home to my Rebecka, then to church where I'll be leading the choir nervously. Then, maybe I'll go to bed.