"A birthday is the annual anniversary of the day on which a person was born."

Of the dozen or so composition classes I've taught so far, that's my favorite terrible first sentence. It seems à propos. 

If you imagine the course of a life as shaped like a bell curve, birthdays become less and less remarkable the closer to the middle you get. 

But not for being less happy. Sam. What can I say? You always kno

w what to tell a girl. And it's always heartwarming to get birthday wishes from friends and family. It usually rains on my birthday (maybe about 70% of the time), but this year, the rain is holding off until tomorrow. So, my baby and I are dining al fresco, with the puppy under the table and four inscrutable kitty eyes staring at us through the window. (Dave is currently to my right, draped over a stack of papers and books, as only a cat can be.)

Today's been lazy, which is great. Time for thinking is essential to me, and it can feel luxurious. Over the past hour or so, I've been thinking about a story I'm going to write called "The Designated Hitler" and a movie concept based on that Michael Pollan book everyone talks about. Really, what if all our corn crops failed, forever? Might it not yield a slow apocalypse? I'm imagining a Michael Bay–style blockbuster. Now I just have to figure out a few things, like the resolution of the conflict, the cinematic time of the story, and what everyone says and does.

I think after I finish this post, I'm going to go outside, lie in the hammock, and listen to the end of a crap post-apocalyptic novel. Maybe I'll take some iced tea with me. I'll just relax and think about the end of the world as we know it. It'll be fine.