A Dyslexic Birthday

So, today is my birthday. I am 45 today, in dyslexic years.  I’m not really dyslexic, only on my birthday. I don’t mean to poke fun of those who transpose. After all, I am a teacher, and I see b’s for d’s all damn day. Or bamn bay.   So, today I lift my glass to wish myself a happy 45th birthday.

  The comedian, Jack Benny, stayed 39 every year. I like that idea. You young people don’t know who the hell I am talking about. That in itself shows how old I am. Yes, I watched the moon landing. I was alive when JFK was assassinated. I had a mood ring and a pet rock. I am old as a rock, I guess.

 I won’t be able to be dyslexic again for awhile. Next year will suck, because no matter how I look at it, I will be 55, just like a speed limit. “Be careful, drive 55.”  That seems slow, even in our windy-ass roads in West Virginia. Our speed limit is 70. Just watch how you take those curves.

 The next time I can be dyslexic, I will be able to enjoy jumping in mud puddles without risk of looney-bin people coming after me.

I can’t wait until I am 06.  Happy birthday, oh dyslexic me. Or byslexic me.

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