Two days ago on Friday (May 5th), I married my very best friend.
I married the man I've known for the last 20 years, the man I met when we were both silly teenagers in a chatroom in 1997 devoted to the band, Bush, the man that'd been my virtual shoulder to cry on too many times to count, the man who admitted he'd fallen in love with me on June 23rd, 2013, the man I fell in love with in return, the man who'd helped me to acknowledge my loneliness with my previous husband, the man who gave me a glimpse into true happiness and partnership, the man who, though not intentionally, compelled me to leave my marriage Thanksgiving weekend of 2013, the man who left his life behind in Philadelphia in May of 2014 and arrived on my doorstep the afternoon of his 34th birthday, the man whose shared my life with me for the last three years now, the man who loves me in so many big big ways I never knew were possible, the man who rubs my back until I fall asleep, and brings me to the best orgasms, and endures my shitty mood swings, the man who binge watches tv shows with me, and cooks me amazing meals, and travels the world with me, the man who encourages me in my work and never lets me forget he's my biggest fan, the man who pursues and fucks much younger women when I insist, and smokes weed with me every night to relax and experiments with d***s with me, and stays by my side and keeps me calm when the d***s are too much, the man who fucks me unapologetically in g********s, and brings me flowers just because, and never complains about all the tacos I like to eat, the man who wakes in the middle of the night to drive an hour south and away from the city lights so we can lay in the bed of the truck and see the stars, the man who goes to guitar class with me every Sunday, the man who says, "you know why" when I ask him why he loves me so much, the man who will do anything for me, the man who loves me like nobody else ever will, the man I love in ways I never realized were possible.
