You are not my everything. You are, rather, my night sky; your Dalmatian-like freckles form the constellations, each like a delicate flower on a sprig of baby’s-breath.
Lord knows the “oops, I’m an honest vegetarian who accidently slipped on a slab of meat and ate it” club is immense. And this is my written dedication to that club.
Floating down a river in an inner tube, holding on to my friends like a daisy chain, laughing our heads off and freezing in the cold, fresh water.
You find noisy neighbors obnoxious. Back in the day, your only issue would be the fact that you weren’t in on the action.
When you become a woman, nothing and everything is possible. You’re aware of your shortcomings in a different way than a girl is, but you haven’t come to peace with them the way a proper adult grown up is supposed to.