Dammit. You can’t make me cry on my birthday. (Crap. You just did.)
I will never get tired of you. You’re stuck with me until I’m 98, by which time I’m hoping we’re both uploaded into the Singularity. Or off exploring the end of the universe in our TARDIS. Or eating pancakes and washing them down with the Fountain of Youth. Something along those lines, see to it.
You give as much to me as anything I give you. Because, believe it or not, Aniquez, I don’t have a lot of Calvins and Hobbesses in my life. But I have you. And I feel like the lucky one here.