Your loved ones came together to celebrate your special day.
Fourteen years and you still ask if your shirt matches. It never does. I love you anyway. Happy 40th, you ridiculous, beautiful man. You are the best decision I ever made and the worst dresser I have ever known.
You held my hand on the school bus when no one else would. You let me cry in your apartment in 2011 and didn't tell anyone. You taught me that being the older one means showing up. Happy birthday, big bro. I'm so glad you're mine.
You once told me 40 was basically dead. Welcome to the casket, brother. I brought snacks and a single ironic balloon. Twenty-three years of friendship and you still owe me $20 from that gas station in Tucson. Pay up, grandpa.
You microwave fish. In 2026. We see you. We've always seen you. The fridge knows. The break room knows. The Slack channel knows. Happy 40th from your devoted office watchers.
Forty years of being slightly too loud at brunch and exactly the right amount of loud everywhere else. From the basement of Baker Hall in '04 to your kitchen last Thanksgiving — you make every room better. Don't change a thing.
I knew when you came out screaming that you'd be fine. I was right. You have been a joy and a project and a miracle for forty years and I would not trade a single minute. Call me Sunday. Don't be a stranger just because you're old now.
Lifetime record vs Marcus: 41–8. The 8 are pity. Happy 40th, statistically. Mathematically. Definitively. The court awaits. Bring the knee brace this year.
You're the only person I know who can make a Q4 review feel like a TED talk and a Tuesday standup feel like therapy. I mean that nicely. Mostly. Happy birthday — the team is bringing the cake at 3.
DADDY YOU ARE OLD BUT NOT OLD OLD. I MADE THIS CARD WITH MOM. LOVE YOU TO THE STARS AND BACK TO THE COUCH. P.S. CAN WE HAVE PANCAKES TOMORROW.
Saw you eat 11 dumplings in 1998. Still talk about it. Iconic. Generational. The kind of thing the family will tell at your wake one day, which thankfully is not today. Happy 40th, my sweet little garbage disposal.
You owe me $40. Consider it a birthday gift. We're square. Don't look for me. See you never. Happy 40th. (You know what you did.)
The band was bad. Like — historically bad. The friendship is good. Twenty years on and you're still my first call when something good happens and my second call when something bad does. Here's to another forty. And please, for the love of god, don't pick up the guitar again.
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