My baby's birthday is Thursday (c'mon, y'all: "Awww").
I'm driving to his place today, after I attend my one "can't miss" class (First Aid, wherein if we miss a single lab, we don't get our certification). Three hundred miles. This trip was planned well in advance, for us--about two weeks ago.
This, my friends, is the definition of love: Willingness to face Houston traffic not once but twice in the course of slightly over 24 hours' time.
(For the record: yes, he's getting a birthday present. No, firearms are not involved. I will admit ammunition was my first thought.)