I love you. Each and every one of you. I really do. I’m also terrified of you. You make me think things like, "I need to get nice furniture, something Danish, mid-century. Oh, and plants." You’re so cool it’s exhausting. You have so many interests. I’m not smart enough for any of this. Philosophy, cooking, photography, music, art, fashion, and you work out every day? EVERY FUCKNG DAY? Do you know what I do every day? Not much of anything other than stare at my shitty furniture and forget that I need to get some plants.
I have to ask you, when you do that thing where you’re staring at your phone (probably making super awesome plans like going parasailing in Rio or eating at that place Anthony Bourdain went to in Basque Country) and you look up for whatever reason and we make eye contact, you smile a shy smile and then look back down at your phone, do you realize that these are the moments that let me know the economy will definitely rebound and that global warming was just a dumb phase?
I’m offering you infinite French fries, girl. Infinite.
I know about things I have no reasons knowing about—like "ombre"—because of you. And instead of just saying "make" sometimes I actually say "DIY"—like a total doucher—because of you. You've totally forced my hand into pretending I'm cultured and that I have a healthy social life populated by talented, driven individuals. In reality, while you’re hanging out with your old roommate from that year you spent modeling just for fun, I'm nurturing my misanthropy eating Totino’s pizza rolls while watching T.I. and Tiny.
On that note, a date proposal: Red Robin. I’m offering you infinite French fries, girl. Infinite. And for breakfast I’ll make you French toast with challah bread. Not just any bread, Zingerman’s challah. French toast made with Zingerman’s challah bread means I love you. Let that sink in.
Photographs courtesy of Ryan Kibler