08 February 2010


Last week I forwarded you a text from last night:
And you responded, almost immediately, with this (click to embiggen, I can't figure this shit out):
(This is the link you give in your email)
I don't really feel that further why-I-love-you evidence is required.

I love you to pieces.

Fall of 2000: You live upstairs from me and my roommate Paris in the dorms. Between the three of us we drink enough that rightfully at least one of us should be dead or in jail.  Miraculously, WE ALL SURVIVE.
We live delightfully within walking distance from each other for four straight years, even when we both decided to move downtown.  You had a permanent sleeping space wherever we were.  You always counted as the unspoken roommate.  You were one of the hosts when we threw parties. 
Once when I was out of town you peed my bed.
And didn't tell me about it for two years.
And I still adore you.
College ended, I moved to Chico to become an unwed mother, you moved to whereverthefuck Dartmouth is to be a professional Jew.  We didn't see each other and didn't see each other and didn't see each other and then! Maren and Nick got married!
So you met my baby boy and EVERYONE wanted to talk about how giant my bewbs were and we drank and laughed and danced and everything was just like always.
And then we didn't see each other and didn't see each other and didn't see each other some more.
So I came to Boston!
Ben Loves Me

Where we drank and talked about my bewbs and wandered around hungover eating kosher bacon salt and everything was just like always.
For your 20th birthday, we got you a 40-year-old stripper who did a naked handstand onto your face and permanently destroyed your ability to smell Lubriderm lotion without cowering in the corner like a scared little boy.  I wore a police helmet.
I can't buy you a scaggy old stripper this year, and that makes me sad.
This is the 9th year I've wished you happy birthday.
Because we are old.
I hope you have the best birthday ever.
I love you to pieces.