Do you remember when we were little kids on the playground and we would play our favorite game “Cat in the Hat Funeral” and you would play Thing 1 (because I always let you be Thing 1) and I would play Thing 2 and we'd pretend to fight over The Cat in the Hat's estate because he died in a Thinga-Ma-Jigger explosion? Because I do. I remember everything we did together. Your baby doesn't because he wasn't there.

In fact, he's still not here! He's due in two months, so why are we having a party for him now? We don't even know him, what if this kickass party goes to waste because your baby ends up being a loser or something? All these gifts in your house are for someone we've never met.

You should know that when I was rummaging through your gifts (for you of course, because I had to make sure they were to your standards), I saw that someone gifted your baby a pair of itty bitty Converse. 1) Your baby doesn't even listen to The Strokes so I don't know why they did that, and 2) Your baby can't even walk in them yet.

I should've thrown them away but I didn't because I want everyone to see the disappointment on your face when you open them. Unlike everyone else here (with the exception of that other guy… your “husband”), I know you best and I've done enough research to get you something that you and the baby will both find useful: a Nintendo GameCube.

I always hear people complain about how a newborn baby will keep them up at night and how sleep-deprived they are in the mornings, but now you can play Crash Bandicoot when that happens. Bonding with your baby through skin-to-skin contact is a thing of the past and I encourage you to bond with your newborn the way I bonded with my sister as a kid: by handing your baby an unplugged controller and telling him that he's playing an unplayable sidekick.

Maybe I just feel slighted because I've been a staple in your life and now I'm going to be replaced by someone brand new, both figuratively and literally. We were supposed to be besties forever, just the two of us. The plan was to go to Columbia Business School, major in finance so we could start a scented glitter pen company, create the world's most beautiful glitter pen that smelled like bubblegum and sparkled in silver, get super rich, buy matching yachts, get investigated for illegal use of chemicals in our pens, get our company shut down, go on the run, get caught, and then State of New York was going to execute us at the same time with a double-decker electric chair.

But… then you got married. And now you're having a baby. Which is cool, but it's not, like, exciting or anything. It's fine.

Don't get me wrong, I'm happy for you, but I just think the party should be about us as friends and not the freakazoid that's been preventing you from having sushi for the last seven months.

Wait– You want me to be your son's godparent? Well, I guess he's…. Okay even though we still haven't met him. He could be chill. You'll be my future kid's godparent too, just so you know. Actually, maybe I should have my own baby soon so your baby can have someone to talk to. Maybe when our kids reach a certain age they'll play their own versions of Cat in the Hat Funeral and eventually start a glitter pen company. Maybe their glitter pens won't have any mercury in the ink.

I've decided that itty bitty Converse actually suit him. And hey, he's your baby but he's my soon-to-be godson, so he maybe he isn't too bad.

But I'd still background check him in the delivery room if I were you.