So I ran into Chris G. at Tai's. I mentioned that his brother Steve had asked for an acknowledgement of their gracious moving help on Bizzybiz. Chris appeared offended that I don't blog stuff about him all the time. He asked "Don't you love me anymore?"
Chris, sweetie, of COURSE I love you. Don't tell Cap, but I really moved here for you and not him. In fact, I'm stalking you. I'm really good at it; that's why you don't see me. Sometimes I order vodka and Red Bull even though I don't like it just so I can be cool like you. I have a life sized poster of you hanging on my bedroom ceiling. I sewed tags that read "Chris G. is my pimp" into all my underwear. I named my cat Kristen because whenever I call her I get to say Chris. I know I got her a year and a half before I met you, but I knew it would happen. I silk-screened your face onto my pillowcase and I make out with it every night before I go to sleep. I also named one of my vibrators Chris. I have a keepsake box called "Elements of Chris" where I keep a lock of your hair, and cigarette butts you've dropped, and lint I've surreptitiously gathered from your pants. Sometimes I take out the cigarette butts and lick them. I've started rooting for the Bengals and the Reds. I've named you the beneficiary of my life insurance and my 401(k). I spray your cologne on my sheets. I have a hit out on the girl you said you want to marry. I scribble my name with your last name in the margins of all my notes.
Chris G., you are the bomb.