Eleven

You're already tired of seeing me type here, I know. You'll live--you've no choice. Nyah.

So Wingnut--I mean Weasel--no, I meant Wingnut, I hate Weasel, Wingnut at least sounds like something with which a Cybertronian would get tagged, and if I can't use her real Autobot alias, I'm gonna use something that doesn't sound overly generic and wasn't a target in one of Weird Al's songs--and I are celebrating our eleventh anniversary today. Yeah, eleven, not first. We were finally married back in September of last year, true. I don't give a lot of weight to that date, in all honesty. Somewhat asininely, I put only a silver trophy on the day we first met at BotCon '99. Gold star goes to the day she replied to my initial e-mail to her--and I still can't say exactly why I inquired as to the status of her ActionMaster Bumblebee, aside from perhaps general wonkiness. Nope, the unobtanium quantum singularity goes to the day I flew in a southeasterly direction and met her just off the disembarcation gangway. Thus began our life together.

Yeah, I said 'thus'. Weld it shut.

I'll be taking her to what has apparently become her favorite restaurant tonight, where she'll doubtlessly snarf a trio of enchiladas that have been drowned in molé (ugh, that stuff is a travesty, really--capsaicin burn and pepper high or GTFO). She might actually partake of a frozen margarita of her own rather than guzzle half o' mine. Hopefully Ensign Lightweight there won't fall asleep from such a pithy amount of José freakin' Cuervo before I hand her a REDACTED BECAUSE I KNOW YOU'RE READING THIS WHILE I'M AT WORK WINGNUT HA HA, which upon seeing she'll likely break out into tears. Or a ridiculous grin. Or song--y'know, I'm never quite sure with her.

Which is all part of the fun for eleven years.

Happy Anniversary, Bunny Convoy.

+++PRIME OUT+++