Dear Jamie-Lynn,

Happy 26th. Gee, has it really been that long? I seems like only yesterday you were the impish little TV newcomer that gave "The Sopranos" a much needed dose of jailbait in its first season. We sat patiently through year one, trying not to lust after you until the time was right. In the second season, when you were old enough but your weight ballooned to the point that they tried to hide your extra mass like you were the fat chick from Wilson Phillips, we stood by you. And you rewarded us by turning the bingeing to purging and getting back into fighting shape by season three.

We've watched you grow from a snotty little diva to become the mature moral compass of a morally relavist family. Through your Ivy League years (a success), your ill-fated attempt at interracial dating (a failure), and your CD Here to Heaven (a disaster). OK, we never heard you sing, but you probably prefer we didn't. We loved you when The Sopranos was one of the great shows in TV history, and even when it became an embarassing shadow of its former self.

We still liked you when you got married, liked you even more when you got unmarried, and kept our fingers crossed when you started hanging with Hollywood's most self-destructive party sluts. But you've come through it all as a sultry, curvy knockout.

Happy birthday. Now do some nude scenes before it's too late.

Thanks,

The Barstool Guys.