In a punchy, buzzy haze last week, Jesse and I were toasting the wonder of flirting shamelessly, hyperbolically, and newly without fear of any sort of repercussion. In a fit of mutual hubris (and vodka), he even went so far as to offer to declare his undying devotion to Wicked and Trixie to the entire (be-interwebbed) world. Fast forward a few days, and the drunken dream takes physical (internet) form, its illustrious author even going so far as to invoke my future husband in its creation. I've gone off the idea of (eventual) cremation entirely, because I want this on my tombstone.