The inevitably mediocre, short, and unfortunately premature conclusion. :(

Arnold P. Shortman frowned at his bad luck. He had been wrestling with his youngest son, Mickey, and had bumped into a coffee table. The pain wasn't terrible, but the sound of breaking glass forced him to stop entertaining his son. Digging his hand into the pocket of his worn jeans, he was horrified to find his pocket watch broken.

"Hey, I'll be right back, okay?" He had told his son before walking up the boarding house steps to his bedroom. He walked over to his desk, and dropped the watch carefully on the table. It was broken beyond his level to repair. He started taking it apart piece by piece, separating the broken parts from the unbroken ones, when suddenly a rolled up piece of paper fell out of the back of the watch.

He had no clue what it was.

Looking around the room for no apparent reason, he debated unrolling the paper for several moments. His heart was racing as he pulled it open, revealing a page length of words.

It read:

'Dear Arnold,

I'm not sure if you'll ever be able to figure out who wrote those poems for you, so in case you don't before this watch breaks, I wrote you the truth on this piece of paper.

My name is Helga G. Pataki, and for the past few years I have been madly in love with you. I know this may come as a shock to you Arnold, seeing as how I so often bully you, and bring you down... I can't explain why I do those things.

Maybe it's because inside, I'm afraid. I'm afraid that you may not like me if you knew how I felt. I'm afraid you might not like the real me.

Well hopefully my fear will have been resolved by now, and we will be living happily together in my mansion. Arnold and Helga Pataki.

However, if it doesn't work out for us Arnold... I want you to know, that I'll always love you, no matter what.

I'll see you soon I hope, for you and for me.

Goodbye for now,


Arnold smiled, his eyes slightly watery with emotion. Pulling the top drawer of his desk open, he retrieved a familiar pink journal, and a piece of tape. Opening the book to the only open page, the back cover's interior, he taped the letter down.

"Dinner's ready Shortman." Arnold's 99 year old grandfather called from downstairs. Arnold closed the journal and put it back in the drawer, before heading downstairs.

The dining room table was all but empty, only Mickey was seated, a big smile on his face.

"Where is everybody Mickey?"

"HAPPY BIRTHDAY!" A chorus of voices yelled from behind him. Arnold felt two slender arms wrap around him. His wife leaned her chin on his shoulder.

"Happy Birthday Arnold... I love you."

Arnold's heart swelled with a warmth and a joy the likes of which he had only felt on the respective birthdays of his three children. Turning around, he kissed his wife on the lips, earning an applause from all his other friends.

Gerald was there, Phoebe was there, all the tenants, Harold and Stinky and their wives, his loving grandparents, and Arnold's oldest son and his only daughter. Looking back at his loving wife, a smile crept onto his lips.

"Call me crazy..." He began, "But I think I might be the luckiest guy in the world."

Helga held him close and laughed.

"Happy Birthday Football head."