Like it or not, the blue Gandalf beard was making a comeback because the cryptid writing this comment likes to make L'Oreal cry.

Under the spotlights, SME's luscious lip locks were a shiny blueberry stream. Wrapped around her like a scarf, her glorious false facial hair trailed behind her as she embraced her moirail (worry not, for she properly cleaned and conditioned her chin wig until it had the sweet, sweet scent of all her student loans being paid off).

Virtual hugs could never compare to the real thing, but they would have to make do.

Releasing her hold on the star of the show, SME whipped out a microphone from the pocket dimension inside her beard.

"Hi." She waved. "Excuse me, may I say something, please? If you don't mind, everyone." She stared at a certain audience member pointedly. "That includes you, Xander."

"Screw off!" heckled the heckler. "Because of you, I have alcohol poisoning!"

"Excuse ME, young man." SME placed her hands on her hips. "Technically, I am still your mother. Now put that middle finger down and, again, give it up for Pierce! Everyone else, please clap as well so the underage alcoholic anonymous attendee doesn't look like a weirdo."

The audience did what they were told. Mostly because they agreed that her best friend deserved another round of applause, and partially because the gremlin on the keyboard said so.

"First off: Happy birthday! You're officially an adult. Now that you're eighteen, you can- wait, what can you do when you're eighteen again?"

SME looked at the front row for guidance. Neubon mouthed a suggestion, causing her to leered back. "Dude! I can't say that! I already pushed the PG rating of this review/ reply with the gesture gag as it is. Hm." She rubbed her chin. "I guess you can buy a gun? I can't stop you if you really want to. Just don't pull an Entitled White Cis Male."

"America's disturbing priorities aside, we've been friends for more than six years now. Throwback to that one bonding incident in fourth grade where we shuddered at the thought of tampons and other horrors of puberty. I can remember it like it was yesterday." She chuckled. "Good times. Good times." SME stopped laughing.

"It's amazing how, after all these years, you still tolerate me enough to call me your best friend. You've seen me at both my best and my worst, yet you still supported me no matter what. I know I wasn't the best partner and, frequently, you had to carry my weight. I want to tell you that I'm sorry for holding you back.

"You've improved so much as a writer and as a person. You're no longer the girl I traded stapled stories with. You're a bard, with a PhD in attorneys and fairies, weaving sentences into songs to be sung in fandom come. Not only do you know who you are, you conquered your fear of hygienic products (kudos!). The journey wasn't easy but you found yourself and I'm proud with how far you've come. Look at you now, you're doing amazing on your own. Before we know it, we'll see your name printed on the front of bonded pages of fantastical epics.

"I miss you. A lot. I'm blessed to live in an age where we can easily communicate over long distances. It isn't the same as sitting down, face to face, though. Texts can only do so much. Whenever we can, let's continue our conversation where we left off, okay?

"Hopefully, before you know it, I'll see YOU on the far side.

"Thank you for everything."

"Now," SME grinned, "WHO'S READY TO PARTY?"

She snapped her fingers. On cue, sentient jelly- bean puppies and kitties in shutter shades wave glow sticks as they gently glide down from the ceiling in technicolor hang gliders. The beat drops and everyone jams to a metal remix of Vocaloid and Broadway show tunes. Somehow, Xander gets beamed in the face with a solid cube of confetti because f*ck that guy.

It was calculated spontaneous chaos, topped off with cake, of course. Every good birthday party needed cake.