in which I pore my heart out. (you'll get it if you read it all)

Dear Universe,

The year was 1967. A young Iowa farm girl and a young Iowa town boy had married and made a home for themselves in a tropical land where palm trees and pineapple grow. "Ah...Hawaii!" friends of the young Iowa farm girl would say wistfully on the rare opportunities she had to speak with them. "Bah! Hawaii!" she would reply before launching into tales she speaks of yet today of snakes slithering up the pipes and pushing the toilet seat up to greet the human inhabitants and of creepy creatures "larger than cows!" crawling across the walls of their tiny home.

Oh, but it was their tiny home, and at the time, it was filled with love. So much love, in fact, that the young Iowa farm girl and the young Iowa town boy welcomed a baby into their hearts as November reached it's mid-point peak. "Just one child!" the young Iowa farm girl screamed between her upright knees as she peered down the delivery table toward the naval base doctor who, through diced English and a cigarette clamped between his teeth - though not necessarily in that order - insisted the young Iowa farm girl would be delivering twins.

Twin boys.

Between contractions and clashes, the child - unaccompanied - was born.

That child? A girl.

"Huh?" puffed the perplexed doctor from his vantage point through the young Iowa farm girl's upright knees at the end of the delivery table.

"Aha!" pointed the young Iowa farm girl who had just become a mother of one from between her upright knees - again - to the perplexed doctor.

That girl? Me.

Since that triumphant arrival, Universe, we've had some good times together, you and me. Two years spent pampered - literally - in paradise kept me away from the Snakes In The Toilet until the day the young Iowa farm girl and the young Iowa town boy packed me along on their homecoming journey to the heartland, and it was there with patience, love, guidance, and understanding the girl - me - grew up.

Oh, sure, Universe, we've had some tough times, starting with that interloper who invaded the home of the young Iowa farm girl, the young Iowa town boy, and their perfect paradise-born, Iowa raised princess when the princess was almost 3. They called her "Your sister!" and I greeted the sibling's arrival in a fashion typically reserved for - and thankfully outgrown of - the most distasteful of things - by vomiting repeatedly off the back steps. Eventually, we grew to love one another, the sister and I, but I must thank you, Universe, with gifting me with cheetah-like reflexes which came in handy when, as adults who, as they say, "Should know better," the sister chucked a steak knife at me from across the kitchen for reasons neither of us can recall now.

(Universe? I ABSOLUTELY can recall, but seeing as how you gave her the Hidden Dragon and me the Crouching Tiger, I figure it is best not to stir the pot, and I thank you for backing me up on that for the last 20 years)

There were boys who did not love us like we loved them, Universe, and jobs we wanted that did not work out. That's OK. I believe that is what's commonly referred to as Life Lessons, right Universe? Consider me magna cum laude, Universe! We've had our ups and our downs. We have had our dark days and our seemingly endless nights. There have been trials and there have been tribulations. Oh, yes, we have had our bumps in the road, haven't we, Universe?

Speaking of bumps, Universe, my friend, I have but one question for you. Did you happen to catch the part at the start of this letter to you where I mentioned the year - 1967? That means in just two weeks, I'll turn 42 years old, buddy. Yeah. Forty-two. I know! So my question is this -

WHY THE HELL AT NEARLY 42 YEARS OLD HAVE YOU GRACED ME WITH THE ACNE-RAVAGED CHIN OF A 15 YEAR OLD BOY??!?!

I'm not talking any standard issue pimple, either, Universe. No. These are some grade-A, hardcore beauties. Why, I quite imagine there are adrenaline-fueled adventurers out there this very minute scrapping plans to mount the Himalayas and instead are redirecting their Sherpas to prepare to ascend these pustules.

These eruptions are so inflamed that I think eruptions may very well be the best word for them for they, indeed, may be storing lava under there. They are so red that clowns first approach me in anger, assuming I have stolen their trademark red noses and attempted to adhere them to my tiny chin, but they are quickly turned away, embarrassed by their mistake, when they notice the tiny old men guiding mountain climbers up the Zitterhorn.

What's that? You want more, Universe? Get comfortable, because I've got a million of 'em!

(actually, chillax, it's just three)

These things are so huge and red NASA attempted to land an un-manned exploratory rover on my face until I swatted it away like some kind of King Kong!

They're so red and engorged my face looks like that of the Lord of Darkness from the most magnificent movie about unicorns and, well, I really don't know what else, of all time, Legend. "Was it not your sin that trapped the oil in your glands and killed the unicorn?" Ah, yes. Aside from Legend nerds, I may be the only person on earth who has mentioned this movie in two separate posts, Universe. You're welcome.

Finally, these zits are as angry, engorged and inflamed as the father character from the beginning of Twisted Sister's iconic video for We're Not Gonna Take It. "Who are you? Where do you come from? Was it because I ate too many fun size Butterfingers last week?"

(yeah, OK, that one was a little lame, I'll admit, Universe)

Anyway, I guess what I want to say is well damn done, Universe! Thank you for turning my chin into Kuato from Total Recall. I can think of absolutely nothing more sexy, or fair, as I approach my 42nd year.

Actually, I can. Chin hair. Ah, it's just a matter of time before you turn me into an elderly man, isn't it, Universe? Kudos.

p.s. - While I've got you here, Universe, can you tell me why it is I like this song? Because I do not wish to like this song, but every time it comes on the radio, my fingers are rendered incapable of doing anything other than turning the volume up. Yes, I do not want to like this song, but forces far greater than my own are making me, primarily by pinning me to the ground and tickling me until I beg for mercy. Or until someone experiences an unfortunate kick in the gonads.