of livejournalling. The Neighbs just proved to me that I have written 42 pages since 2004, simply because I felt like it, because for Christmas this year he meticulously put every word, every photo, in a document for me and e-mailed it to me with a header that said:
"My dear, you have a way with words - I think you know this. But, do you know how much you have a way with me? I wanted you to be able to keep this. And, I hope to inspire you to keep writing. I love you. Merry Christmas."
I hope it doesn't embarrass him to see his own words in cyberspace this way, but if he read anything of my blog while he was copying it over--a task I don't even want to think how long it must have taken-- he knows that nothing is sacred, that if he wants to be in my life and wants me to write, he'll necessarily turn up in my thoughts and words. I predict this will be the case for a long, long time.
What a kick-ass Christmas present. Seriously. Perhaps it's a sign he's forgiven me for the night I kept him up almost until dawn reading my own words, cracking myself up, going, I'm sorry, but seriously, listen to this... It's hard to take pride in that stuff, it feels immodest, but now I feel as though somehow I have been given an invitation to do it.
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