Seventeen Years Under One Roof

Fittingly, the gift of seventeen years is furniture to represent "comfort." I don't know who comes up with these things, Old Man River, but since we bought a fucking roof this year, I would say they nailed it.

Happy anniversary--our house will not be leaking, thus we are sure to be comfortable.

Also ^^^ that metaphor? It kind of rocks.

Most people think foundations when they think relationships. And sure, but that's only one part. (I'm sure my builder-y, handy friends are like, yeah, Krissy, it's the most important part. I hear ya ladies, but go with me.) The roof isn't flashy, but it works to keep you safe. Cozy. Protected.

Kind of like you do for me.

Jan, this has not been a typical summer for us, and I want you to know first and foremost that I am dead certain that no matter how often I low-key want to throat-punch you for the non-essential questions you ask, I know without a doubt after seven weeks apart that we are meant to be together. As in, sharing space and up-in-each-other's-business together.

That's it. Period. End of sentence. Conclusion.

Jaja and Shitzy: together.

Because when we're together, throat-punching fantasies aside, we make sense. The world makes sense. And even when it doesn't, I just don't care. See again: we're together and that's all that matters.

Absence makes the heart grow fonder, yes yes. I am fonder. I am in love. And I am so fucking grateful for you and our 17 years together, Old Man River, because even when shit is hitting the fan, or you're asking questions, or I'm worrying about, well, everything, I am safe and comfortable and loved. And happy.

I love you, Jan. And I miss you. And I will wear the fake pilot's t-shirt you sent me to see you tomorrow, but we are going to talk about why you bought the child's size:)

Happy seventeen. Let's go for a lot more, okay?

xoxo