(Still lazy after all these years)
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Last week, I turned sixty-three. No, not colors.

No, I didn’t turn sixty-three pages, or sixty-three heads. No, I didn’t turn state’s evidence sixty-three times, though I could have. No, I didn’t turn over sixty-three times in my sleep, though I often have. No, I didn’t turn sixty-three shades of grey; in fact, I’m not allowed to have sex any more, because it makes me infuriatingly pleasant.

Last week, I turned sixty-three years old, which i...