After an excellent day spent touring the De Young and eating cake with the Woods, the Lad and I spent yesterday evening sitting near each other and reading things. Because the radiator schedule hasn’t been amended to account for the chilly evenings, I had to wrap up in my XXL flannel pajamas covered with a print of dancing pigs.
“I am a pork ball,” I said to myself, examining my giant, fuzzy knee bags, and insisted that the Lad address me as ‘Pork Ball’ for the remainder of the evening.
This is how things stand with us, me entering life as a 27 year old, him turning 28. We own all the arcade games, occasionally dine on carrot cake and half a bag of walnuts, and some of us blog about our hair. Would his life be more elegant if he lived with a grownup? Hopefully we’ll never know.
Happy birthday, Lad.
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