Birthday Love: a Mission Statement

B,

You’re a dream.

You’re a dark-haired, smooth-skinned, well-educated, feisty, culinarily skilled, literarily talented, and paradigmatically sexy dream lady and, incredibly, you’re here—reading my attempt at rambling appropriately (and yes, my love, with sincerity) for the occasion. Of course, I am erect in all ways and places! However, since you’re fine enough to have your pick and to decide on the timing, you can come to me, make your intentions clear to me anytime! After all, you are the birthday girl.

(An aside: It’s 3:07 AM (as I write this) and all I can think about is how nice it would be if it were summer and I were holding or caressing some part of your damp hair, looking into your eyes and feeling that sometimes overwhelming and hopefully actionable urgency between us—I think you know what I’m talking about)

Today’s birthday girl is more powerful every day than she knows, and I hope that changes. I know you look at birthdays as social and personal “power” days. Most people would agree—even this Scrooge of birthdays. But I want you to know—if you don’t already—that nothing would make me happier than seeing you seeing the immense power of the emotions, ideas, and personality you show every day. You have lots of fire in you. Yes, you’re a worrier. But you’re also—and just as much—a warrior. You packed up, left, kicked ass, came back, and, as a result of your impressive focus, passion, and, to disclose fully, youth, started on the path to slaying scummy, smarmy advertisements almost straight away. Respect! [I’m fist-bumping you in my mind] Don’t lose that spirit, that scrap, and I know you’ll make it. I know you won’t lose it—so I know you’ll make it—but I figure since you’re probably all teary-eyed and moved by now you’re susceptible to my powers of persuasion, such as they are, and so I might as well tell you to do something I want you to do: kick some ass, as much kickable, puntable, roundhousable, kneeable, toe-in-the-balls-able ass as you can find, and never stop!

You’re twenty six, you’re better than ever, you’ve got some lovely fight in you, and your presence in my life is proof good things can happen to complicated people.

I love you and hope we have more consistent access to a bed sometime soon,
J

P.S. Pardon all the dashes.
P.P.S. Pardon any obfuscatory nonlinearity or unwarranted literary license.
P.P.P.S. Pardon my failure to use your stationery—my handwriting abjectly sucks no matter what I use.
P.P.P.P.S. Did I mention you’re the sexiest? 😉

Excerpted from a larger piece.

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