You are my boyfriend
My stars forever.
My fave Swede, my sweetest pop bitch boyfriend babe.
In the end, tell them to play Dancing On My Own.
The winter was too hard for me, too hard for my friends, we are sad and we let the broken leaves off of our shaken trunks because you turn us on again
It is spring again. You say so. Indestructible.
Bless Bless Bless
You never were
you never will be
This morning, I’m leaving for Israel on a family vacation, something my parents are calling a “heritage trip” and I’m calling 6 days on a beach in Tel Aviv. After making me update my Verizon account to an international calling plan, Babe decided that she liked the idea of a heritage trip so much that she was going to take one of her own… to England where her Dad is from. She made it very clear that the vacation would include no reunions with distant family members, religious experiences, or visits to Stonehenge, but would consist entirely of spa treatments and trips to London’s Wailing Wall of fashion, Dover Street Market.
And so, while I was busy getting ready for my trip, I was also preparing Babe for hers. Now, trust me that packing with Babe Walker is one of the more insane things anyone will ever do. After the final decisions are made r/e outfits, accessories, bag choices, and shoes, her staff and I begin the impossible task of fitting everything into two carry ons. Babe lost a checked bag once and vowed to never again trust “people in airport uniforms.” This means packing for Babe (a process she always oversees with the utmost attention) is like playing a combination of Jenga and Tetris. Each piece must fit perfectly into place or the whole thing is fucked.
Luckily everything fit and Babe is currently on a plane to London. Meanwhile I’m sitting in the airport about to take off on a 13 hour flight (kill me) from LAX to Tel Aviv. On the bright side, I don’t think Babe will be able to reach me at 20,000 feet.