He was a legend.

And I was the girl with the bad perm and smoked too much.

He was out of reach. And not only because he was married and famous. He had friends. Loads of them. And they stood by him. Around him. As though they were guarding their most prized possession: this bear of a man who wrote code and ate meat and played foosball.

And I loved him.

Time went by. The perm had gone. But the Marlboros remained.

And he was still a legend. But single again.

And I still loved him.

The year was 1992. I’d just moved in with a couple of girl friends into a bigger house near college. Boy, were those the good days. Friends were easier to make back then. You didn’t need to know if they’d give up on you, or let you down. You didn’t care because there were just SO MANY of them.

In the next room lived a working couple. His name was Raymond. Hers, Lisa. They had wild sex. And six fans hoisted up on the ceiling. He walked around shirtless. She chained up the washing machine.

And Raymond knew him. But I did not.

Six years later, I quit college and took up writing. Walked by a hobbies store one day with my brand new fantasy board game, intending to find someone who’d teach me how to play it.

I looked in. And saw this guy in a red cap and long hair. Talking. Laughing.

It was him. Still, I didn’t know. And I went home.

1999. I found the online world. Made some good friends. Rediscovered old ones.

And found the man I was going to marry.

What were the odds?

 

I know I’m crazy sometimes. And wrong. And lazy.

And fat.

Made some bad choices. Lied about many things. Lived a little too fast.

And still, you gave me the best nine years of my life.

And noone will ever know how you do it.

Neither will I.

Happy 36th birthday, baby boy.

Thanks for sticking around.

Ps. A birthday wish from your girls. Also playable on Flash player on the top right of this blog.