My bone marrow turns six years old tomorrow. She’s grown up so fast. I have a photo album with pictures of her biggest moments: her first crawl, her first curse word, her first viral infection. I still think she got that on purpose when I made her watch Scarface instead of 27 Dresses.

She was going to make a birthday list, similar to the one she made two years ago, but I told her there won’t be any gifts this year because of the poor economy. Then she said that prices have gone down, almost to the point of deflation, and that I entered the market when the Dow was nearly 7,000, and with my good credit and low interest rates I can buy her pretty much anything. That little macroeconomist bitch.

I try to rear my bone marrow right, but it’s tough being a single host. I eat raw vegetables because I know they’re good for her despite the wretched odor that exits my anus, which, by the way, she doesn’t have to deal with. She says she doesn’t like broccoli and would prefer mushrooms, but she knows I don’t eat fungus.

Without her birth host to teach her girly shit, I have systematically brainwashed her. She now prefers 24 instead of American Idol, and foosball instead of dolls. She even takes it to a new level—I’ve caught her pouring Everclear into her breakfast nutrients. Imagine how fucked-up I get.

Kindergarten has gone surprisingly well, though she has gotten violent with the other bone marrows. I think it’s from the moonshine. She isn’t acting like the other girls, and shows no sign of interest towards boys. I’ve spoken with her hematologist/psychologist about this, and we both think she’s a lesbian. This suits me just fine. If she got knocked-up by some bastard bone marrow I’d lose my mind. God help him if he’s type O-.

Happy Birthday, sugarplum!