Lovin' you is like food to mah sooouul

If there's one thing,
one
thing
I'm most thankful for in the entire world,

it's having extraordinarily nurturing, hilarious, supportive, un-overbearing and loving parents.



My childhood was, truly, only happiness.
The only thing I can blame them for is my irritating optimism.
Hopefully I can carry on the tradition.

THX, MMY.

Why do you lv yr mmy?

You hab... a long hair. You hab... a byootipul eye.

I realize this daunting block of letters is mad faux-paus in the rulebook of blogging (under "Things That Make People Say, '(scrollscrollscroll)'")...
But blackhockeyjesus wrote it.
And blackhockeyjesus supercedes all rules of blogging (mostly because he writes a Daddy blog with "Vagina" in the title, and we in the blogosphere think that's just fine).

"Jenna. What beauty is this? Is yours a face or is it but a dream reflected off the silver glass of a mountain lake? Your hair my dear is the yellowest hay, too fine and wonderful for the mouths of stupid horses. Neigh. It is a bird's nest of gold. But so fine and soft that one would never know it's actually precious metal. Rather, it feels like hair. Your hair is soft like hair. It's a golden tautology. Your lips are two spilled puddles of red wine that call for me to drink them, to lap them up with alcoholic enthusiasm. For some the essence of the mouth lies in its capacity for speaking or eating or breathing - but for you these are merely secondary, tertiary, and fourthiary. For your mouth, my Jenna, was made to kiss. (And to say dirty hot things but I guess that would be speaking.) It's primary function revolves around the business of making out. And good God your regal nose of Italian stock! Lodged (daintily) between the two deepest seas ever discovered upon the face of a woman. Who would dare try to speak with any substance about the mystery of your eyes? Here a moment clear blue. A murky grey the next. They shift like your mind, woman, when we're trying to find a place to eat. But to speak of your face in parts like an 8th grader dissecting a frog is a crime against the wholeness of your face. For it is only when your face is apprehended in its totality that a man swoons and gasps and wonders by what ghost he is haunted. Fireworks explode overhead. That little boy soprano choir sings. Angels smile and people do not bristle at the knock of strangers at the door. All for your face, Jenna. Your face restores my faith in the sacred power of prayer."

... JOHN WHY DON'T YOU EVER TALK TO ME LIKE THIS.