to paul on our anniversary

Dear Paul,

It's been a good eight years. I would even go so far as to say it's been a really, really good eight years. Good just isn't a good enough word, though. And the words that seem right also seem really, really....gooey.

Yesterday I came home from school and you didn't open the door right away. Sometimes that can be a sign that some illegal dealings are afoot (if you watch a lot of Lifetime television for women), but in this case it was just because you were putting the finishing touches on the Cinco De Mayo themed anniversary decorations you were putting up in our apartment.

They're pretty great decorations, too. I especially love the giant guitar holding mariachi guys who are now flanking the pictures on our big wall, and who look strangely like our friend Doug. I love that you stood in a party store and knew that I would love giant mariachi guitar guys who look like our friend Doug.

I don't know how to say all the things I am thinking. I don't know how to put eight years, eight years that have moved and lifted and challenged and blessed into a paragraph. I think when people do it usually ends up in a card that plays music when you push a button, and I'm just not sure that's what I'm going for here.

Maybe it is, though. I mean, if you can't say gooey words and throw pink marshmallow hearts around and stuff on an anniversary, then when can you?

So, I'm just going to go for broke here. I'm just going to lay my gooey cards out on the table. I think you're awesome. More than that. I think you're awesome times like fifty. I think you are sweet and silly and unexpected in the best possible way and the only person I ever want to throw pink marshmallow hearts at.

Also remember last night when I made you watch Spice World because I just wanted to see if it really was the worst movie ever made (and it was) and you only asked twice if we had to keep watching? Well, I just think that was really decent of you.

It's been a good eight years.