You Are My Perfect Drug—23 Months and I’m Still Addicted (A Mush-fest)
Happy 23rd month together, hon.
I love you so much even if you just had your hair dyed blond and will have it dyed platinum blond over the weekend, and I just had my hair dyed brown. I love you even if you would sometimes confuse adjectives from adverbs and forget your past tense, and that I write and speak better English than you do (heh). I love you even if you wouldn’t gain weight though you eat more than I do, and I would gain weight eating just half the amount you normally eat.
I love you even if sometimes I would need to wait for you for two hours to log out from work so we could meet up, and you wouldn’t be too apologetic about it. I love you even if our baby Chiquito is more loyal to you than to he is to me, though he sees me more days in the week than he sees you. I love you even if sometimes you wouldn’t listen to my stories though I kept repeating them to you, and you would make excuses that you were just being deep in thought.
Well, I guess what I really want to say is that I love you because you are you.
Cheers to 23 months of getting on each other’s nerves, countless verbal and emotional fights, and pointless [pseudo]intellectual debates. Thank you for 23 months of passionate love and hate, both inebriated and sober bliss, and fierce fights and steamy make ups. It’s been 23 months and still I love you. You are my perfect drug, indeed—I’m hooked.
I love you.
