I asked your mom for pictures of that New Years Eve, and yeah, I'm kind of sorry, but I don't think I'm at fault.
You were cute before I met you, and you're cute now, so forget about the camera, and sit back and talk like Moses talked to God, and talk like Mom and Dad would talk before they found out she was pregnant with the worst and best two decades that she still feels were a dream.
And talk like we do; talk like one of two identical, divisible denominators stuck inside a textbook made of dances.
Please excuse my dear Aunt Sally for forgetting how to knock.