Black Elizabeth.

Devon has come down for the weekend and probably doesn't know what she's gotten herself into. I was asked a couple of weeks ago if the Rowe School would host the thirtieth birthday of a one Mr. Michael Andrew Morgan. Being the jovial gentlemen that I am, I replied--with an immediate and startling dearth of reluctance--"yes, of course."

This time Devon has attempted and in large part failed to come prepared. Previously she slept on a yoga mat on a hardwood floor like some sort of...er, well..yogi, but this time she bought an air mattress but not a pump. Right know she's overexerting her tiny lungs in a noble attempt to conquer this huge gray slug.

Evan: You realize that you might actually die before you blow that thing up, right?
Devon: At least I'll have a comfortable place to die.

In light of this clever, albeit fallacious response, I've decided not to come to her aid.

However, I urge everyone to come to Andrew's aid as he attempts to conquer his thirtieth year of existence. Mr. Morgan has been one my closest friends for over ten years now, and I expect you all to come singing his praises and showering him with valuable trinkets, twinkies, trinkies and hugs.

And for you, my curmudgeonly rube, bon courage in your third decade, even though I'm pretty sure you've been thirty for as long as I've known you!

Love,

Evan

p.s. As you all expected, I am not making good on any of the promises I made in my last post.

(exeunt.)