Oh, hey. So you’re the new farmer, huh?

Happy birthday, I guess.

I heard you hate celebrating things but your simp boyfriend (me, sorry) made you a website because this is a transactional friendship and I love you.

Like, not a friend kind of love but a yikes-we’re-gonna-get-married kind of love. Like, wow, this-guy-made-you-a-website kind of love.

That’s how you know it’s real.

Anyway, I’m typing this whilst you’re playing Stardew Valley next to me and I’m trying not to giggle like an idiot as you scrunch your face up because you can finally "fuck up those tree stumps."

At least, that’s what I think you said but I won’t ask you to repeat it because I’m terrified of you.

I’m not only terrified of you, it’s kinda complicated; you’re so cute and scary that it hurts, too. Walking around Seattle today I realized perhaps 75,000 times that you’re it. *This* is it. You and me. Walking around. Thrusting at eachother in public and making everyone uncomfortable.

Anyway, happy birthday. You’re funny and charming and sweet and good at handy stuff and you’re weird as hell and brilliant and I love randomly screaming in bed with you. I adore finding new jokes with you, I love being serious at you, I love blogging at your face.

I love you. Or something, I don’t know. I’m currently overwhelmed with milkshake aches. Maybe it’s the milkshake (it is not the milkshake).

You just rolled over to me and said “I love you” randomly as I typed this.

God, you’re a simp. But you’re one hell of a farmer, too.