It is your birthday. You are now a real adult. And, baby, I am so, so grateful that you are here.
I love you because without you I don’t know what I’d do. I’d feel woefully incomplete, that’s for sure. Whenever I have a problem, you are the person I come to. Whenever I have wonderful news, you are the person I tell. I hardly ever see you, but that is okay, because we have the type of relationship that doesn’t need constant attention paid to it. There is nothing I don’t like about you. I like your hair, I like your wit, I like your exotic tiger eyes… I like how you are so cut-throat and true to yourself ALWAYS, but at the same time always seem to understand that I am immature and don’t know how to deal with romance, hardships, or even my own hormones. I love you so much, Karen. It’s intense.
I also like the way you eat. You’re so weird about that—letting people watch—aren’t you? But I like that, too.

I’m a little bit sick right now, and at the moment I can’t taste anything. That is the worst thing in the world to me. Whenever I lose my sense of taste, I initially get excited thinking “YES! Now I can eat all the super-healthy things that I hate the taste of normally without any pain!!” but I’ve never been able to think up of a food that is super-duper healthy that both
a. I hate the taste of, and
b. doesn’t have a HORRIBLE, TERRIBLE texture and bitterness that is just insurmountable, even in my knocking-on-death's-door state.


In my dream of dreams, we’d be living together with a garden, huge lilac bushes, many windows for light to pour into our kitchen, and little border collies.

-Camille