I’m a girl, you’re a boy, disaster and hilarity inevitably ensue.
That year-long period I was head-over-heels in love with you? Funny, in retrospect. And all those I’ll-drink-until-I’m-unashamed sexy sessions? Ew, I know, gross.
T, I want to thank you so much for letting me love you; for fucking me over, admittedly, but for being your kind and love-worthy self about it.
Thank you for seeing me naked and interacting with my genitals.
Thank you, most of all, for sticking around – after the confessions, the tears, the hangovers, the bitching, the pain, the fights, the overall drama of being in love with your best friend.
Two years later, the idea of being in love with you is plain icky. Sex is a positive no-no.
But you’re still my best friend, and that’s the only thing that matters.