I love my boyfriend. He’s amazing. He’s the bee’s knees, the cat’s pajamas and the dog’s tuxedo. Before you puke up your low-cal latte, let me just say that it’s true. This isn’t some kind of love-induced haze of affection; he’s actually an incredible man. My mom loves him. So does my stepfather. He even gets along with my weird twin brother who says things like “you know that TV show that’s an hour, with that guy who used to be a vampire and his dad invented running shoes?” (For the record, he was talking about Kiefer Sutherland in 24 and, yes, that was my first guess. If that’s not crazy twin telepathy, I don’t know what is) But the point is that my wonderful boyfriend will gladly buy (probably illegal) fireworks with my brother and set them off in the backyard, much to the irritation of the neighbors. My boyfriend will also make me tea, rub my back as I fall asleep, call me pretty when I’m not wearing makeup, say it’s cute when I obsess over wanting a Pomeranian puppy, watch Jeopardy with me, and read this stupid blog every day. HE’S ALSO AMAZING IN BED. Jealous? You should be.
I lucked out with this one <3 <3 <3
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