We met on the internet, like perverts.

Four years ago today, I sent a *wink* across the internets to n.o.c. He replied with The Lamest Line Ever, so it's remarkable that there's more to this story. He redeemed himself by composing the most wonderful bits of correspondence I've ever received, and then I met him, and he was just like his emails, except taller and cuter and possessed of snakeskin cowboy boots.

Soapbox: Meeting someone on the internet has a skeezy reputation, but it's actually the perfect medium for courting if you appreciate a witty turn of phrase and good grammar. I highly recommend.

I like this anniversary because it's not as schmaltzy as a wedding anniversary; it's a little bit seedy, just like us. It reminds me of the hours I spent translating Sanskrit and Tibetan and Pali, hating my program and wishing that I had a different life. It reminds me of trips to the farmer's market when I could only afford seven Barhi dates. It reminds me of how I used to be nervous and brittle and prone to lapses in judgment. It reminds me of the decision I made to leave all of that, and how, just when I was trying to gather myself up to do something terrifying and depressing, I unexpectedly found something fantastic. It reminds me of the summer that n.o.c. and I spent being so improbably but wholly in love (and drinking gallons of mango margaritas).

Anyhoo, I have hit my maudlin threshold, and I'm sure that you have too. I'm also sure that n.o.c. is mortified. This is what comes of being around a school-full of graduating senior girls. This dithering, blubbering, nonsensical emoting has cracked my iron facade and exposed me for what I really am - a Rufus Wainwright-listening, life-affirming, tree-hugging, starry-eyed, soft-hearted p*ssy.