I love each of the three proposals you did for me. First in Chili’s, on my lunchbreak, saying, “We still have 10 minutes worth of break left, and there’s a JOP right down the road.” Then when you made me a ring out of a twistie-tie (that I wore for 6 months), and then when you hid a ring in my stocking on Christmas Day and my excited shouting scared our nieces.
I love the way you’re always trying to help me write new posts. “Write about how your right nipple itches today. Or how you said earlier today, “He was the douchiest douche who ever douched a douche.” Or about sex. Those things are funny.” Your faith in my humor astounds me.
I love how you shake your head when I am shouting and you know I don’t mean it. I like knowing I won’t drive you away forever when I stand in the back of a U-Haul and yell, “I swear to GOD you bring that box here RIGHT NOW or I am going to stab you in the sternum.” I like knowing you’ll laugh, not get angry and yell, when I shut myself in the closet wearing nothing but mukluks and a bra when I know I’m wrong during an argument.
I love your “varied” and “interesting” (fucking terrible) taste in movies and music. It provides me endless hours of entertainment when you talk about what a good actor Kevin Costner is, and how creative Mumford and Sons is.
I love when we were in Arkansas together and you laid, drunk, on the riverbank with me and sang, “The second pee is the longest,” to our friends who were peeing in the bushes. That rendition of Sheryl Crowe lives on in my memory forever.
I love you in the kitchen, wrestling a pizza out of the oven with nothing but a cutting board and a goddamn pizza cutter and it honestly looks like you have dolphin flippers for hands.
I love you walking two blocks to come get me from a restaurant, just so I don’t have to walk 2 blocks home alone.
I love you doing the YMCA at our wedding with a bottle of wine in each hand. I love you wrestling the 98 buttons off my dress that night with a bic pen (“THIS IS A MIDEVAL TORTURE DEVICE, NOA”), and I love you in fucking Santa Fe the next day (“I certainly wasn’t expecting hippies and shitty art. Looks like we’ll be doing it all weekend. FUCK IS THAT VAL KILMER?”)
I love you here, with me. Whatever trickery I have done to make you love me must have been fantastic.
What’s your love story–of anything? Could be chocolate, face cream (HAH), Ghostbusters–I’m feeling mushy today.