'Good morning, Data'.
'It's time to get up, sweetie.'
'Well, it's time to get up.'
'Bud I sleeeeepy.'
'It's still time to get up.'
And you're three years old, for fuck's sake, you should be leaping out of bed filled with enthusiasm for another wonderful day of learning and freshness and freedom from responsibility.
'Bud I sleeeeeeeeepy.'
Seriously second-born, you're not sixteen and encased in apathy. You're not suddenly, shockingly, yet another year older and lost in a sea of confusion and fear. You're not, whisper it, 34.
'What day is it today, Data?'
'What day is today?'
'Yes. But what else is it?'
'Yes. But what other kind of day is it?'
'I got you pwesents. I got you a duck.'
'You're not really supposed to tell me what you got me.'
'Mommy got you books. Not a Dora books.'
'Again, you're not really supposed to tell me.'
'I got you a duck.'
'It's time to get up.'
I suspect that if I had any other life than this then this is the life that I would envy. Deeply un-Gimme though it may be, I believe that today I may even have myself a happy birthday.