Amber, making you laugh is my favorite thing in the world. My second favorite thing is laughing at your jokes. Every day I wish I lived nearer to you so we could do normal friend stuff, like have lunch or see a movie or just drink wine while sitting on my couch, which still has a you-shaped indention in it.
I miss the old days, but I’d happily sacrifice them if it meant you could chase and maybe even catch those dreams you are pursuing. I think Craig is amazing and when you finally decide to do the Good Catholic Thing and get married, I will be there in pastel taffeta if that’s what you want. And I will babysit as long as I have clearance to hit your children with fly-swatters. Only if they act up!
Phil, it drives me crazy how weird it feels when you’re not around. I suppose I try to balance that feeling with my constant quest to be as annoying as possible around you. I truly don’t know why I like to embarrass you in front of strangers, or why I always have the urge to smack things out of your hands, or why I walk slightly behind you and move from side to side when you turn to talk to me.
You bring out the idiot in me — the one I keep hidden from people I’m trying to impress. The one who seeps through my seams anyway.
Sometimes I think you are the only man in the world who will ever love that idiot.
Happy birthday, both of you.
Awww! Me too. I especially like making you bark. Which is why I hoard things to tell you and scribble them in my Lil’ Reporter Pad.
Just don’t bruise their faces. Or their scalps, as they’ll be shaved bald in order to prevent bouts of head lice. It’s only fair — I birth you, you remain clean of blood-sucking parasites at all costs.
I forgot to tell you to tell Phil I said happy phucking birthday, mother phucker. So tell him now.