this one somehow got a little fliiiirrrrty, future wife
Hi hi, future wife.
I like to write stuff.
And that might be the most obvious thing I’ve ever said.
I think I’ve told you about how much I love to write long and silly e-mails.
Well I have discovered that I also love to write hand-written letters. Old school, baby. Of course the downside to that is that the receiver has to somehow deal with the fact that my handwriting is doctor’s prescription pad illegible. Honest and for true. It’s bad bananas.
If you can overlook that fact, I think you might enjoy my letters, lady. They are possibly even sillier than my emails. And that, my gorgeous little friend, is saying something.
I leave notes in the margins. I use arrows to direct your attention places. I draw pictures to express things when words just aren’t enough. Have I mentioned that I can’t draw at all?
It’s a scene, man.
When I’m done with the main letter itself, and still have more things to say, I might write another letter to go along with the first one. Maybe it’s addressed to you. Maybe it’s addressed to your breasts.
“Helloooooo, ladies. You’re looking well…”
I might even jot random thoughtlets down on post-its and stick them to the letter (or letters) before sealing the envelope.
I like post-its. I leave notes to myself on them all the time. Frequently they are writing ideas that, for the sake of society, should be forgotten. I am going to leave you post-its too. Anywhere. Everywhere.
I could stick one up on the kitchen ceiling. You’ll climb up on a chair and still have to streeeetch to get it. Then you’ll pull it down, and read it.
“I can’t believe you went through all that trouble for this note. Sucka.”
I’m a joy.
You may wake up with a post-it on your forehead:
“Peter kissed here. You’re a very sound sleeper. So tomorrow I kiss… (over —->)”
And on the other side:
“YOUR GOODIES! Wooooooooooooooooooooo!”
When you’re taking a shower, it is very possible that I’ll sneak into the bathroom to leave a note in the steam on the mirror.
Of course it is even more possible that I’ll jump out of my clothes and into the shower behind you.
“Oh, I didn’t realize someone was in here,” I’ll say.
“Since I’m already in here, I’ll just lather myself up a little and…”
“That’s not you that you’re lathering,” you’ll point out.
“Are you quite certain? I’m pretty sure that it was me who had such luscious breasts.”
“I can’t help but notice that you aren’t stopping,” you’ll say.
“Huh. That’s weird.”
But it won’t be all silliness and cheap thrillery.
After a long, sucky day of work, you’ll climb into your car and pull down your sun visor and see a little pink square stuck there.
“I love you” and a heart drawn under it.
Granted “love” will have been gone over a few times because I wrote it wrong the first time. And the heart will be kind of lopsided.
Actually that is a pretty good representation of my love.