Dear Mamie:

This day, you were born. And because of this, I owe you a love letter. I just stared at my screen for a full twenty minutes, drumming my fingertips on the table.

This guy just walked in, and I was all, “I hope he drinks his coffee here because I’d way rather stare openly at him than write this post.” Then I realized that we know him, and that you declared him hot a full five years ago. And I felt a combination of guilt and annoyance. Damn you, and your presence everywhere.

This past weekend should have been spent in Greenville and in case I didn’t make it clear by sobbing, I have never regretted more being so far away. As in, I wish I could have been there in person last night to have heard your sister say to you, “Oh my god, in that knit dress I can totally see your ass cheeks moving. Separately.”

Instead, I ran into someone who remarked that he’d never have a chance with a girl like you. And then he asked me out.

This is not the best train of thought to generate my more tender (gross, sorry) feelings for you. But I know how you love for me to talk about you, so. This past year has been, in many ways, a train wreck for both of us. But it’s the truth that I would never have made it, had you not distracted me with your shouts and abuse. Hard to curl up in a ball and deny the world, if someone calls you at 7am to say sweet nothings like, “You’re pathetic. You’re the worst friend ever.” Or to panic about isolation if, as you’re talking about it, your best friend just hangs up on you. None of this will, or should, make sense to anyone else, but you know the way to my heart: abuse and inconsistency. And of course the fact that behind it all beats the biggest and most generous heart. Am typing v. fast now to get this over with. You make me laugh when I’m pretty sure jumping is the best idea. That’s it. That’s all you get.

Love,
Hannah
PS. WE HAVE MATCHING LUGGAGE.