Sharon

Lady!
There's no better way I can say that. I'm no Phil Collins or Kenny Rogers, you know.
Well then, Three times a lady.
Sounds better, doesn't it? A can of beer for Rogers.
I've not had much chance, and most importantly, the time, to pen down anything about anyone, save for the mcGuffins my literature classes obliged me write about. Flattering, isn't it? But wait until I roast you on this grill.
First, I'll tell them how you place me on Top of The World, "..Everything I want the world to be is now coming true...and the reason is clear, It's because you are here.." The Carpenters! 
But I'll also tell them how much bother you are to my denim shirts (the ones made in Bangladesh, especially) and geeky t-shirts. Your pretence to iron them came with a price. I'm not forgetting you wore them to those never-ending job interviews. I'm surprised you're still talking about minimum wage things with me. Still, you manage to bless me with a few dimes when you're fit, and when my peanuts run out. (Thank the... Thank your financial wising up.) But, tell you what? I ain't rich but I damn sure wanna be, so I can buy you a boat, a truck to pull it and a Yetti 110 iced down with some silver bullets. And, of course, settle our odds and ends each time we go to town, plus a few bells and whistles.
I'm in no way forgetting the late-night conversations and films. The latter got you knowing Lewis can be pronounced as Louis. This reminds me, Lewis. My heart goes to thee. The conversations! Sarcasm-encrypted, about our common predators, life, and over the dinner (dinner?) table where you used me as a guinea pig. No problem. I did it for you, and my stomach.
How about our tonnnes of secrets? Can't mess around with you, unless I want everyone to know where noons and evenings found me early this year in Spring and a few weeks into Summer. Not that I know nothing about your undercover dealings. Neither did I swear by my left butt to keep everything to ourselves. Well, it's just that... It's you, Femmeless.
Could anything match the rows we've sailed through, me and myself? Hell yes! Waterloos with Sharon. Sometimes I wonder if you're that angel of death the clergy talks about. Maybe... Just maybe, but who cares? Aren't tough lucks the ones supposed to blood-tie us? Define us? Brand us? Team screwed, you remember? Femme Incomprise and Bad Boy 101, I tell you.
Nothing beats our zero damns, hoots and chills for the better. Stretching limits for a li'le bit of fortune. Taking risks for a li'le bit of thrills. Nothing beats this, I betcha.
Could I ever imagine food from Street Fast Food would taste better? Do you know why I could drain half my train fare to get us fried potatoes and half-cakes? I know why. I hated to find you disillusioned in (y)our stuffy room watching "Suits" or "Quantico. I also know why. I feared lentils would be in the menu that day. 
Street Fast Food tasted better with you.
Shared dreams between us come closer each time we talk about it. Your trips to Budapest, Shopping in New Orleans and the much coveted British accent(You'll have to pull extra triggers on this here, I assure you.) I need not mention mine..Go find them in her toe-tips...and nobody messes with her Highness's feet.
What happened to our accounting classes? Do they know we just got better and the classes became a bother so we decided they could Match to hell? Well, That's what happens to everything that's a pain in the neck for us. But sometimes I'm afraid you send too many things to hell sometimes but you're wising up, aren't you?
Tell you what, Sharon, you cultivate positive energy in me. Sometimes, achievement for me is sweeter because you're back there applauding, and railing me on. In as much as I do things for myself, I do them for you, sometimes. Just to appreciate your inspiration.
Now it's you. Let me tell you you what I used to every morning, Ciao at 6:45am then  'Rail on, Rail on.' 
You're just 21. Let me write about you next time from across the continents telling you how 22 years better you are.
I could still flavour this with some Infinite Imagery and Neat Nostalgia (Hey, Loki. How about that alliteration?) but hey, you'll have to blow 22 candles first. 
Candy for you.(On Pappsy's behalf.) Cakes for you. Glass of '21 wine for you. Ice cream for you. Budapest for you!
I could go places for you, Sharon. I could arrange a Birthday song from my Celine Dion, But Birthday tidings are all I have. 
Let me save the best for last.
Beautiful 21st Birthay, Femme Koitalel.

Love,
Kevin&Folks.