As I sit here typing this, it's his birthday eve, and he's fixing my driver's side window on my car, which randomly broke on my way to the store on Monday. Tomorrow, on his actual birthday, when you all are actually reading this, I'll be going to class, and won't get home until late.
But it would be super, duper, uber rude of me if I didn't take the time to tell the cheese in my nachos (metaphorically speaking, dear), how how I puffy heart love him, and think that 31 has never, ever looked so sexy.
Yes, even when you're creepy, or you make the strange faces that I don't like so much.
Basically, you're just my favorite, end of story. And you keep walking in while I'm writing this, and it's getting kind of weird, so I'm just going to be done now.
Oh wait, Happy birthday, love of my life. There, now I'm done.