I like to put on a gruff exterior and bluster about whether Alien or Aliens is better (the former, for the record) and how my favorite Wonder Woman panel is when she's ploughing down the street saying, "Out of the way, sperm bank," but really I'm as mushy as they come. Kittens, baby elephants, tulips, British costume dramas--I'm all over that shit.
And my heart really squeals for my man.
My dearest. For the last five years we've bought comics, watched Stallone movies, eaten sweet potatoes and hoagies, banged our heads at Queensrÿche concerts, studied, traveled, and played with action figures. And now you're eighteen hours away, in a cold place, about to throw yourself into six fresh years of hellish schooling. I'm beyond proud of you. I miss you like hell and I can't wait to be with you again--to nag you, to cook in our kitchen, to hang up your Marvel t-shirts on that funny octopus drying rack from IKEA, to let you brush my hair.
We are not done, indeed we have barely started.
I love you.