On a Diaryface's 21st

For the last three months, the internet has become a sort of necessity for me. I’ve never been extremely dependent on it, probably because I didn’t have that much access to it until I was 19 years old. But now, when I don’t have access to my inbox, I get really restless. I feel like there’s something missing in my day, and it will only be complete when I go online and read/send a mail from/to my Diaryface. Reading about her day and telling her about mine, offers a yayness equal to none other. Without ever having met or spoken our lives are so entwined it’s a little strange. Today, this beautiful Diaryface completes twenty-one years of age. And on this occasion I raise my black Camera Obscura mug full of chai, in order to toast all the things that make this relationship one of my most favourite things in the whole wide world.

To vicariousness. To random ramblings. To kindred spirit hood and diaryfaceness. To Mappings and Musings. To a yay phenomenon of the universe with no explanation whatsoever. To Anne-with-an-e Shirley. To emotional teaspoon-ness. To bossiness. To snow angels, men and villages. To creepy alikeness. To cake batter – cooked and uncooked. To left-handedness. To made up words. To funny pants and the instant yayness they provide. To Rose&Morris, and their blossoming romance. To celebrating Eloping Day. To stealing babies and later feasting on them. To cherry danishes. To violent affection. To my stuffed zoo, which she will help me name over the summer. To Randomity.

To the painful pains of being a girl. To overcoming itches. To stupidly cutesy words, that offer reasons to smile. To Lorellie and Rory Gilmore. To Polly Pinkleton and her magical powers. To the rites of passage. To John Mayer, the Weepies, Jack Johnson, Micheal Buble, Corrine, Carly and Dusty. To Maeve Binchy. To FB bumper stickers. To dal-chawal-pickle. To keeping a loud alarm clock at the far end of the room. To the movie with a butterfly on the subway. To speaking with sand. To jell-o shots. To the yayness that February came with. To multiple P.Ses. To yucky lipstick, which she doesn’t ever need to use anymore, because she’s legal. To make-up in general – which we buy and never apply. To Sleek Bleek, Vlad, Mr. Dibbles and Gordon. To chai and cigarettes. To happy red toes.

To Mommy&DaddyMathews’ yay story. To Valentine’s Day. To subject headers. To dancing in whatever condition, under whatever circumstance. To London dreams of cider-serving pubs. To having extremely similar gift ideas. To George Clooney and Richard Gere. To well-hunting. To shamelessly using the other in times of boo-ness. To de-cluttering. To subtle bitchiness. To an irrational fear of laptops and other technology. To Dance Classics. To Moira Elizabeth Mary Jones – the fairy who had mail. To making ourselves happy. To being worth more. To ripping band-aids. To nicknaming everybody. To Mr. Rightest. To the LBD that I hope she wore the whole day. To the fancy named drink she is holding up for this toast. To a birthday countdown, which ends today.

HAPPY BIRDAY, POOKINS DIARYFACE! I LURVE TO YOU.

PS. I did not forget diaryfaceness in my instructions, you goose. You THINK?