Windowboxes in Newport had these, and I’ve completely forgotten what they’re called.

Dear Eddie,

Back in 2001 when we first met on Livejournal and started chatting online via ICQ and AIM, did you ever, in a million years, imagine that we would end up like this? I know that I certainly didn’t. You were in Vancouver and I was in Providence, and yet we immediately hit it off as though we’d known each other for years. We talked online for hours at a time, and once I managed to get drunk enough to work up the nerve to actually call you on the phone, you still kept talking to me, even though chances are good I was babbling about how cool your accent was and how drunk I was. And I was impressed that you stayed on the phone and humored me, and that you didn’t run screaming for the hills when I told you one afternoon before we’d even met in person that if we ever got married my initials would spell out “cam”.

So I traveled out to meet you and we had some fun. We had a lot of fun, even though I was out of shape and not used to walking everywhere and complained all the time about how my feet hurt, or my calves hurt or couldn’t we just stop for a second so that I could check that my legs were still there? You introduced me to caribou burgers, public transportation, and good beer that has a perverted sounding name. I saw my first movie on DVD at your house, and took my first solo flight to be with you. You took me bar-hopping to some fantastic places, gave me a flower that you picked off a tree, and when I passed out on your bed that first night you didn’t even try to get me naked, you just threw a blanket over me and decided to try again later.

I fell in love with your goofiness, your geekiness, and your scruffy good looks. I love everything about you, from your posing topless like Demi Moore’s pregnant magazine covers to the fact that you give me a kiss every morning before you leave for work, even if I’m asleep or if we’ve fought that morning. I love your laugh, your smiles, your kisses, and your obsession with the Back to the Future trilogy. I love that you’ve already decided that you’d shoot me if I ever became a zombie, and that you will always, ALWAYS try to scare me during scary movies, and that you always try to send me into the other room to turn on the light when we’ve both creeped ourselves out during scary movies. I adore that you collect rubber ducks, but only the right types of rubber ducks. I love that you think I’m a total dork for liking A Tale of Two Cities. We’ve moved twice since you made the big move down here, and you’ve put up with a lot of my hoarding shit. You’ve packed up boxes upon boxes of stuffed animals that I always insist that I’ll snuggle with and yarn that I plan on using eventually. I love how you cook chicken, and I love how you love me even on days or during times when I’m sure that you shouldn’t, because I’m positive that no one else would love me during those times like you do.

Now here we are, married for 6 years today, living in my Mom’s basement like stereotypical gaming nerds. I’m a slob, I’m a pack-rat, I’m psycho, and yet somehow you still love me through all of that.

So what do you say, should we go for another 6 years?

I got bored today and took pictures of myself. This is the only clean one. The rest were dirty. And let me be the first to say that perhaps the least sexy thing that can possibly happen is getting a bunch of good clothed pics of yourself, taking a bathroom break, and realizing that your period has decided to make an appearrance unannounced. Thankfully this wasn’t one of those moments where The Shining-worthy torrents of blood and gore fill the room.

A couple of days ago I received an instant message from the owner of the very first erect penis I ever laid eyes upon - my first boyfriend. We exchange pleasantries about life and how he found me on Myspace, and I mention that doesn’t surprise me, since the only people who ever hit my homepage are looking for porn of some sort. This then progresses to whether I’m in the porn, or if it’s just porn in general. From there it derails into what kind of stuff I’ve done on cam and whether or not I’ve still got pictures. I send some of the cam archive stuff and some of a batch of pics I took of myself a couple of years ago, he offers to send a shot of his junk to my cell - “The only way my eyes will ever see your cock again is if your phone can send it to my email” I tell him - and he wonders why we never did much more than feel each other up when we were 15. We say our goodbyes, and I go to lunch. I come back to an email from his phone. This morning he messages me to tell me his wife checked his phone and was not pleased with him sending the picture to me. Whoops.

The other night I had a dream that I was part of the camera crew on Survivor. Very strange. That doesn’t compare to last night’s dream, where I was at Greene airport for softball tryouts, and the coaches were dropping the balls from out of flying planes. And then there was a tornado that suddenly formed right where we all were running around. Oh, and as if that wasn’t strange enough, Lindsey Lohan was there.

We got word last week that Eddie’s biological father had died (Eddie doesn’t remember him at all), and didn’t leave a will. We were asked to ship up copies of all of Eddie’s adoption paperwork, and while going through it discovered that it doesn’t look like it was an adoption, but rather just a name change, and the dead guy is still listed as his father on the birth certificate. We’re not sure exactly what sort of estate there is, if any, so we also sent up power of atorney paperwork to his mom so she can handle things for us up there. At this point, any sort of money would be good.

Had to close down the galleries. There was way too much disk space being used. I’ll switch to flickr instead.