How I Know I Love You

I had ugly hair and glasses when I became your friend, and you're still here.

I've established the rule that I always get the last brownie, and you don't protest.

I never hide anything from you except surprises.

I can put my cold feet on you, and you don't flinch.

I think you're lovely even with eye boogers and lettuce in your teeth.

I'll raise your kids, even though they'll probably be little smart asses.

I always let you make fun of me.

I always decode your e-mails for secret messages.

I've made you, like, a hundred mix CDs.

I'd go to group/a Trekkie convention/Beto's with you.

I agree to let you read my pathetic attempts at novels.

I'll add a track onto my album of me whispering to you.

I have a voodoo doll of you that I stroke and kiss and dress in expensive tuxedos.

I want to cut "I Love You" into your hair... in French.

I always feel just a little inappropriate thinking of you, but not so inappropriate that it's wrong.

I've been hoarding glow-in-the-dark paint so I can write it on the sky.

I'd love your twin brother, too, if you had one.

I let you talk about your car even though I have no idea what you're saying.

I look forward to the day when I can whisper those three little words into your hearing aid.

I'm okay with the fact that you'll be bald someday, because I'll have a moustache for you to ignore.

I'll train our dog to bring you your slippers.

I'd marry you in a teddy bear suit at the stinky bowling alley with Mr. T as our minister.

I'll write it in the sand at the beach and close my eyes so I don't see the waves wash it away (and if I could, I'd write it in the snow and run away so I don't see it melt).

I dream about you watching me in my sleep.

I will always meet you at the emergency room with your favorite pea coat and a Ray Bradbury book.

I made you a love collage from my old medical book illustrations.

I'm working on some plans to turn you into a robot if it looks like you're going to die before me.