He’s put up with a lot these past six years. Like when he taped the final World Cup game four years back and I told him the results because he wouldn’t rub my back (I’m a doll, aren’t I?). He left the apartment in a huff and I called him 30 minutes later. “Where are you?” I asked. “In the Wendy’s parking lot eating a Frosty,” he grumbled between slurps. It doesn’t get any cuter than that. In the subsequent years he’s also managed to expel my gas, pop my pimples, and give me my enema before surgery (aka the holy trinity of seduction). We’re like two disgusting old farts.
Happy birthday, Matt! May you always act like you’re 8 – even at age 28.
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