It’s my boyfriend’s birthday, and I’m going make you all puke.

You’re welcome for my gift, readers. Now, clean that shit up.

So, it’s my boyfriend’s birthday this weekend (natch, all week by his standards), and we’re also closing out Cleveland Beer Week. I’ve requested a celebration entitled “Cleveland Cheese Week” for the week of my 33. That week also encompasses Cinco de Mayo, so it works, right? Queso: making birthday girls happy since the Mexican Revolution.

Be all that shit as it may, whoever thought that Arrogant Bastard would have become the Partner-in-Crime for whom I had (endlessly) searched. I know (and he noticed) that I don’t write about him much (aside from that-place-where-we-ate/drank/drunk-last night). Without question, I have found a partner (registered in the City of Cleveland, woot!) who has accepted All. Of. Me. from Day One, and who  — just by his presence in my life — has truly created an all-over happiness  I never imagined probable (oh, that’s called an orgasm? Heh.).

From the onset of our ritualistic dating schedule (actually far from normal… aww, we have a “meet cute”), we have (grossly) been inseparable. Our lives have always seemed to seamlessly and brilliantly merge together, with none of those silly insecurity fillers. He packed a bag on our first date, and he’s never left… well, technically, I eventually moved into his apartment, but you get the gist. He is the Wind Beneath My Wings (ie: wingman to pick up hot chicks in bars). He is the stabilizer of my blood pressure (and smartly, silently judges my neurotic freakouts over spiders, banking and work-related stress). He lets me cry in bars over (beers, and)  impassioned conversations of family and the mentally ill (sadly, sometimes one-and-the-same). He makes me dinner (*endless swoon*) and cracks the whip when I need to wake up and “run” (*rawr*). He makes the coffee, yet doesn’t drink it. And learned early on that I am wholly unfunctional (ack, a Morning Zombie!) until I have even the tiniest of sips.

He realizes all it takes to calm my internal storm is a hug.

And a good poop joke.

I love him to pieces.

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