Photo Credit: Catherine Just
It was snowing and I needed a stress cigarette. We bundled up, walked to the corner store to buy a pack. My hands were shaking as I lit up — partly the cold, partly the devastation. I said, “Go in inside, it’s fucking freezing out here.” But you didn’t. You shivered with me. And you don’t even smoke (anymore).
You cry when I cry.
You came out of retirement for me.
You texted me just before I went on stage.
You got up early to meditate on my well being. There isn’t a word in the English language that can convey my gratitude for that.
When I was out of town you came into my house to burn sage because that weird juju thing had happened. And you left flowers.
You told that guy to Fuck off on my behalf. You loved it. You’re like that.
You dropped everything when I sent you a I’m A Crazy Lady Alert Text, even though you were in the middle of your own Crazy Lady day.
“If there was something stuck up your vagina, I’d go get it for you,” you declared to me. “That’s how much I fuckin’ love you.” Thankfully, I haven’t needed to call on you for that.
You broke tradition for me.
You shook me out of it.
You threatened to get on a plane and talk some sense into me.
You DROVE to get cell reception so you could call me.
You told me not to do it. I didn’t. Thank God I didn’t. Thank You.
You laugh at all my jokes. (Is it okay if that’s one of my favourite things about you? Because I’m hilarious, as you know, obviously, and I love making you laugh. Making you laugh makes me feel hilarious.)
You act like I’m, like, super famous.
I know you respect me — even though you make fun of me ALL THE TIME. (Don’t stop. I wuv it.)
You let me drive the rental car.
You dream so big for me it makes me feel like Beyoncé should be all shakin’ in her boots. You said that one thing that had me remember who I was and why I came to this planet. Light, light, light. Love, love, love.
You always remember that I’m allergic to lilies and small talk. You send extravagant flowers when I launch stuff. Never lilies.
When I needed to be alone, you didn’t take it personally.
You defend me. You support my delusion that I’m right the vast majority of the time. Thank yooooou.
You say, Tell me EVERYTHING! And you send me photos of kimonos and hot guys and tell me they’d look good on me. (Sure would.)
Do you remember that night we talked in the car for two hours in front of my place after the movie? It made all the difference.
I can be my most very very softest self with you. There isn’t a word in the English language that can convey my gratitude for that.
You have never once made me feel wrong, or wicked, or insane, or not hot — even when I felt all of those things. You always make me feel righteous, and loving, and strong, and totally hot.
And if there was something stuck up your vagina I’d get up in there and get it out for you.
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