It was really crappy of Elvis to die on my birthday.
Of course, it’s been thirty-one years. You’d think that reporters would be past the King’s death by now. I actually made it all the way to dinner this year without hearing about it. Maybe by the time I’m fifty, Elvis dying will only be a blip in the This Date in History blurb on the second page of the Indy Star.
We don’t have any big plans for my thirty-fifteenth. Jeff took me to The Cheesecake Factory. Let’s face it. The James household is party central. 
The best part of the day was turning on the television and finding The Phantom of the Opera on Oxygen.
So, if you’ll excuse me. Gerard is waiting.