I wasn’t a dog person before I met you. I made fun of dog people. Now I run across the street to hug your dog and call her “my sweet baby girl!” What have you done to me?

Remember when we were like, “We should do an art project called Blood Oath Daily where we take turns writing funny / pretty / meditative / horny things about life and each other. That would be rad”? And then I bought the domain and we launched it on the equinox and haven’t missed a day since? I feel like everything we do is going to be this way: a funny / pretty / meditative / horny idea, and then an insane level of follow through resulting in something that is magically, unmistakably a manifestation of the collective “us.”

When you notice me looking at your ass, you turn away from me and lean over slightly and say, “What?” and I say, “Oh my God you’re killing me,” and you say, “What… this?” and I say, “Seriously, I’m dying,” and you say, “What… I’m so confused,” and you lean over to pick some imaginary object off the ground and then I die.

Saw Adam Driver in a play, then went back to our hotel and broke another seal. The big one. Now we have a new joke: pointing at your belly and calling what might be inside Momo. As in “Momo will be a genius. She’ll have great hair. One day we’ll tell her about the night we saw Adam Driver.” We keep telling the joke and laughing, but maybe it isn’t totally a joke and maybe we don’t entirely want it to be.

On our second date, you asked me if I had any kinks. I said I didn’t think so, but I wasn’t sure. A month later, I’ve got a full-blown Daddy complex with a rapidly developing breeding fantasy.