Dearest Fauxhawk,
We met three years ago today.
I walked into the bar, looked at you, and said, Hot damn. With my inside voice.
You said, "If I gave you two million dollars, would you tell the sweet Thai waiter to go back to motherfucking China?"
I agonized, thinking I could share the two million with the waiter so he'd never have to wait tables at a shitty Thai restaurant again. But I couldn't do it. And you were short on cash anyway.
I ate duck and you ate beef.
I drank Jameson and you drank seltzer.
I was wearing the pants you hate. You were wearing the shirt I love.
I thought, This boy is demented and funny and I bet he smells good.
You thought, This girl gets really worked up about circumcision.
And that was that. (Give or take some gut-wrenching but necessary drama).
Dearest boy, I like you better than everything in the sky. And under the sky, for that matter.
With love and squalor,
Your P.
P.S. Sorry about all the means things I've said about the fucking cats.
Photograph via delete the adjectives.
