Wouldn't you love

to punch Toby Keith in his throat?

Remember that creepy song pooped from the speakers of your local gas station, assaulting your sense of wellbeing and your peace with the world? You just wanted some cheese puffs, 10 bucks of gas, maybe some good convo with the cute scamp behind the counter who would always wink as you were leaving, that tomcat. But you couldn't get good convo because you were too busy swallowing a little vomit when you heard these lines:

How do you like me now?
I couldn't make you love me,
But I always dreamed about living in your radio.
AHOW DO YA LIKE ME NOW?!

You know, if I did like you that would be the question, wouldn't it Toby? HOW? How do I like you now that you've written that braggy piece of truck scented crap? Good thing I don't like you. In fact, I repeat, I would love to punch you in your throat. I wish I never heard that you named your new albutt "Big Dog Daddy". Because now I have to go through the effort of placing you even deeper into the bowels of my hatred, deeper than any other singer who ever was; you're a chore, Toby Keith.

The big two five.

I celebrated with friends; we ate fancy pizzas topped with boar, another with pancetta and scallops, a thai prawn and a fajita one thrown in and we drank and drank wine and spooned at free ice cream with gooseberries.

And that was enough; I was happy and laughing, but I got this too. I'm spoiled as 25-year-old milk.


My birthday lake.


One of many birthday G&T's.


My birthday yard.


My birthday slugs in my birthday yard.


My birthday love.







And finally, my birthday swan lake. I didn't know the camera recorded with sound. If you don't want your ears to melt off your head, I would turn your sound off.