Words. Sometimes. Maybe...: PLEASE EXCUSE MY DOPE-ASS SWAG

If you're reading this, it probably isn't meant for you. If it's not your birthday, this probably isn't meant for you. If you don't have curly blonde hair and an affinity for your own split ends, this probably isn't for you. If you don't romp around in your matching green-and-gray-striped pajamas, if your favorite animal isn't a three-toed-bear-atee, it doesn't mean you're not special, you're just not my favorite roommate. If you're not Christine (i.e. gorgeous, hilarious, and too smart for me), this just isn't for you.

Now that we have eliminated (more than) the majority of the readers, I can begin. (el oh el.)

My dearest Christine,

I'd like to congratulate you on turning 17 years old. (You are now fit to be a dancing queen.) This, I thought, was the best way to wish you a happy birthday. I'm not very good at birthday videos, which seems to have been the way you wished other people happy birthday during middleschool.

This is quite difficult. I'm just sort of making it up. We had a good start and now I'm sort of floundering.

I just want to tell you that I love you in a million different ways and point out how important you are to me, but trying to do so is making my face all red.

Love, I hope that you're having a good day filled with plenty of frosting, because it's the best part, and lots of hugs, because you're so good at them.

At this point, I would simply like to sing you (read "serenade you with") the song of our people. Perhaps a dramatic reading? Opera-style? The interpretation is up to you.

"I'm on that good kush and alcohol

I got some down bitches I can call

I don't know what I'd do without y'all <---- (this was not what I thought he was saying. ENUNCIATE PLEASE MR. WAYNE)

Imma ball 'til the day I fall"

(I believe this song is called Bitches Love Me by 'Lil Wayne and Drake.)

Moving right along, just call me Keith Horn. I was thinking about 10th grade today and when you asked me if would eat a sandwich that had been sitting in the sun all day, my answer of "It depends what kind of sandwich" was obviously not the correct one. Thank you for being so adamant about my dental hygiene.

Just a reminder: people don't throw rocks at things that shine; people throw rocks at people who throw other rocks at them.

Another reminder, I don't think I'll enjoy living with anyone as much as I love living with you. Okay. This is getting gooey, which is an attribute that should only be attached to chocolate chip cookies.

By the way, I have learned all my parts to this song. Have you? (Oh... the wax.)

While we're here, I might as well just say that you're super cool and you're going to have trouble finding a roommate as good as yourself to live with next year.

I like the way your face lights up and you do that little squeal when you get excited about something; when you laugh sometimes you get really breathless and say my name because my goofiness has gone off the charts. Or the way you harumph when you're frustrated. When you make that weird, oink-ish noise in the back of your throat, I can't help but think how much it pissed Ali off. I'm going to miss you talking in your sleep because it always cracks me up at five in the morning. Don't worry, I know that you can put maple syrup on anything. But the dead baby jokes man, those just. I just. I. I. I'm sorry.

Truthfully, I'm only here to talk about TFIOS, okay? Including this clock:

Get it? Because time is a slut?

Koalas? Also, how do you remember that joke about that winter-termer that never came to school? Because you told me last week without even having to think about it for a minute and I forgot what you had said about ten minutes later.

Thank you for always braiding my hair; you're welcome for braiding your hair terribly like two times during Flex Term. Thanks for always being sweet. Thank you for putting up with my tears (I'm sorry). Thanks for the cupcakes and the cookies and for helping me name my dad's truck. You're the bomb-diggity. *dances away awkwardly*