I want to be extra transparent right now and my only saving grace is that no one’s probably going to read this. Nevertheless I gotta say it…last Friday I turned 35. My family came over and we played obscure board games my game elitist brother brought over. For years all I’ve wanted is to just play Life or Monopoly, but eleven hour, uber involved games are his bag, I guess. Saturday my bffs promised we’d go and smoke hookah that evening, but as life goes, we put it off for another day. I stopped at Wendy’s, came home, took off my pants, opened a hard cider, ate my cheeseburger and watched Love Story for the first time ever. Ryan O’Neal was never more handsome. My neighbor, who I have a monster crush on, was gone all weekend. And I hated it. I paced the floor and began to think to myself “I just might be in love with him.” But that’s nonsense. You can’t love someone you barely speak more than two words to every other day. Nevertheless I found myself wishing he were around. Something about him actually being there gives me comfort. And it’s one of the things that makes me happy these days. The knowledge that a crazy idea can burrow itself into my flesh and stay there, makes me warm just knowing he’s there. So there it is. If you ever read this, then you’ll know: I think you’re great and not in the “I’ve built you up in my mind” kind of great. In the, “let’s drink beer and eat Chinese and talk about our dreams” kind of way because I believe that you’re just cool enough to be game for staying in, going out, or traveling this great big world of ours. Being you means being great, and if you happen to read this, knock on my door sometime and ask me out. I promise I’ll say yes. I’d be happy to.