Thank you for participating in the 20-something’s game. I really hope you treated it like such—a game. Never again will you have that much freedom to do what you want to do without consequences, and if you’re married with children before 30, then congratulations–you suck.
I hope you did all possible drugs, got into fights and had sex with everyone from ugly, fat, tall, psychos, black, Asian, sluts, nerds, midgets…(my apologies if I’m forgetting someone). Hope you’ve had a three-way and a few abortions.
Each scar’s a story that goes well with your crooked nose; it means you don’t take bullshit and you love your friends.
I hope you’ve broken a few hearts and cheated enough in your 20s, ’cause from now on cheating becomes pathetic.
I hope you wore that Seinfeld shirt enough. Every shirt that reflects your personal taste in music, films, video games or movies needs to go in the bin.
Give away your Xbox; next time you play video games will be with your son.
Move from skinny to slim jeans, throw away every pair of flashy snickers you own, get rid of that Mohawk, get rid of your nose ring, get rid of your skateboard, and your umbrella.
Stop smoking weed for five years; this is when you need to figure out what to do for the rest of your life other than a 9-5 job, you need to be fresh.
I hope you traveled enough and worked at a bar; bar work forces you out of your shell.
I hope you crashed a few cars and spent at least a night in jail.
I hope you don’t regret any of your tattoos and I hope you don’t wear white socks anymore.
And last but not least, I hope you know that from now on you get an official invisible license to undermine every 20-something, and that turning 30 is a relief if you did your 20s right.
Happy birthday, you old fart.