When I first met you, you were defrosting your freezer with a flaming spray can of ether. You asked me to pierce your ear, and when I did your lips turned white. It wasn't love at first sight. I thought you were one of the strangest looking people I had ever seen.
You were so funny, though. Not very many people could make me laugh when I was sixteen. And you were patient. I made you wait a whole year to kiss me, and you never complained.
All I ever wanted was to be your home, but you kept running away. You disappeared for days, and didn't tell me where you were going or when you would come back. Most of the time, you didn't even tell me you were leaving. Do you remember the morning you came home with a broken nose? You'd been wandering through the steam tunnels at MIT all night, and a manhole cover had fallen on your face. Do you remember all the times you lied to me - about Robin and Lois and Rachel and Lucinda. I could always tell when you were lying. You were so earnest.
Four years later, you couldn't believe I would rather stay home and defrost my freezer than go to dinner with you. What can I say? The freezer wasn't frost-free, and neither is my heart.
It's been 20 years, and I still think of you every time I defrost the freezer. Happy birthday, dumbass. I can't believe you're still alive.