My little brother David stopped being "little" a long time ago. He's been his own man for years, and despite not having been that great of a college student (he never finished, the punk), he is, arguably, the most financially successful of us three brothers. He's made his own way in the world: working hard at a PR job in DC for over a decade, moonlighting as a pro bartender, buying a beautiful house in Alexandria, and marrying the woman of his dreams.
I've blogged about David before. I've blogged about his cruel prank call; I've written a birthday poem in his honor; I've talked about his incredibly massive turds; I've posted several times about his marriage and his dog. David is someone who bears writing about. He's had an interesting life that promises only to become even more interesting.
So now my little brother, who's got more gray hair than I do at this point, turns a ripe, stinky old thirty-seven. I foresee a year full of "Clerks" jokes.
Thirty-seven!?
HAPPY BIRFDAY, BIG BOY! May your turds never stop rollin' out!
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