In the last 365 days I packed in a surprising number of little moments—and over the past 1,096 days I’ve collected even more. (Yes, that includes the extra leap-year day.)
In that time I’ve written ridiculous poems, indulged a little too greedily in a bowl of dip with blue corn tortilla chips, and shared the details with anyone who would listen. I’ve filled my sentences with the word “like” more times than I care to count. I’ve spent hours at a computer and in front of a sink—while rarely doing the dishes. I’ve burned cupcakes and once set my oven on fire. I’ve cracked eggs directly over the mixer and let shells fall into the batter, despite Mother Lovett making me promise I’d always crack them into a bowl first.
Not everything changed. I still haven’t mastered adulthood, and I’ll probably never learn to like raw vegetables. Pie crusts remain elusive, and I confess I don’t care enough to practice them. My childhood obsessions—with Lisa Frank and a trapper keeper—haven’t gone away. I’m not great at disconnecting for an entire day, but that’s okay: my online friends have become real companions.
You gave me the courage to make croissants, which felt like a revelation. You showed me how to enjoy Brussels sprouts. You made it feel acceptable to watch Dawson’s Creek well into my twenties, to leave the bed unmade sometimes, and to count cheese, crackers, and wine as a perfectly reasonable dinner. You reminded me that it’s fine to be a little afraid of the dark, to sleep with more blankets than makes sense, and to keep reliving my awkward tween years with a mix of fondness and exasperation.
My gratitude for your time, comments, and support is enormous. Every message, every visit, every shared laugh matters more than I can neatly put into words—which is a little ironic, since that’s exactly what I’ve been doing here.
So, in short: I love you. I love you so much it’s almost overwhelming. Thank you for three wonderful years of listening, reading, and being part of this little corner of my life.