Thought for the Day, #62

To Those Who Think They're Ugly

Last weekend, I received an email from a young man.  What he wrote broke my heart, because I felt the pain he's in.  I was in the same situation many years ago when I was around his age (even though I'm not Asian).  And it took me a long time to see my way out of it.

I knew I could help this young man because of my age and experience.  And I also know, from other emails I receive, this young man is not alone. There are so many gay and lesbian people out there who feel insecure, isolated, alone, confused, and lost.  Who need answers.  Who need hope.

For that reason, I want to share his email with you, as well as my response, which follows it (both have been edited for clarity).

If you are in a situation similar to this young man, I hope my words not only give you comfort, but also show that you are in control of the changes you need to make to improve your situation.  Yes, that's right.  You are.  In fact, no one else can do this for you.  Only you can.

*

Hello.  Your blog, "This gay relationship“, really interests me. I have to say you are a really happy and experienced person. 

Well, I am 19-year old Asian boy. I came to Canada for studying when I was 17. I feel lonely because my parents are not in Canada with me, and not a lot of people can really understand me. 

What I see in media is that an Asian boy like me is considered the least attractive person in the western world. I think I will be considered ugly even when I come out. 

Now, I just try to be nice and help people as much as I can so that I can make some real friends; however, culture barriers really stop me from getting some real good friends.  

And I need to study extremely hard for my future career. Well, I am not rich and have to pay my tuition fee that is 3 times higher than students here. As a result, I pay so much effort on every test and exam. However, no one can mentally support me, and financial burden really drives me crazy. 

Plus, I am attracted to men, which makes me insecure and confused. I am really afraid of what is going to happen if a lot of people knows I am gay. If I tell my parents, I may not receive my financial support from them.   

Well, I don't have any gay friends, but just straight people, so I am pretty lonely inside. Most likely, I just go to gym, do my homework, and watch movies by myself. 

I will try to go out to make friends by taking part in sports team. But I don't really feel a lot of happiness. 

I never meet gays, and sometimes I may be afraid of them because most media portray them as sexual animals, even though I am one of them. 

I'm kind of feeling lost. I just think I have bigger problems than usual gays do. Can you give me some suggestions on what to do? 

Thank you very much for reading my problem

Sincerely.

And here's my response:

Thank you for your interest in my blog and for having the courage to contact me.  I know I can help you with the situation you're in if you do two things:  remain open to what I have to say, and commit yourself to making small changes, that I know will have a big effect on your life in the long run.       

Are you ready?  Let's begin.

It's very telling that, at the part of your email when you begin to describe yourself, you write the following:

* "What I see in media is that Asian boy like me is considered as the least attractive person in the western world."

* "I think I will be considered as ugly even though I came out." 

I want you to read these two lines several times, because, at the risk of over-simplifying, they unlock the key to your problem, or to the biggest part of it.  Let me explain.

The fact is, how you think you look, in relation to the western world, is at the core of how you feel about yourself.  And how you feel about yourself directly affects how you relate to the world around you, specifically, to other people.  In other words, you think you're ugly–a strong, hard word, by the way, that I know, even without meeting you, shouldn't be used to describe you–so you present yourself to the world as someone who is ugly, and the world responds to you in that way.  

The world around you knows you think you're ugly.  You might not realize or believe that, but it's true.  And, as long as you think you're ugly, the world will continue looking at you the same way.  It's the law of karma:  What we put out there is what we get back, often many times over.  I'm sure this isn't the first time you've heard of that.   

What you might not realize is the opposite is also true.  If you think you're attractive or handsome or good looking–even if, at first, you don't believe it in your heart one hundred percent–the world will respond to you as if you are, to the degree that you feel that way.  Because here's what happens: when you change how you feel about yourself, you send out a different energy, an energy of being confident and secure and comfortable with who you are, and that energy attracts people to you.  

Maybe it will only happen a little at first, and you might hardly realize it, but it's there.  You'll be more visible to other people, people who, like you, will see you more realistically, instead of as the ugly young man you think you are now.  And the more positive you feel about yourself, the more positive people around you will respond to you.

Do you see how you control that?  Do you see how, if you change how you feel about yourself, the people you come into contact with every day will see you the same way as well?  

And what's so heartening about this process is, you only have to take that first step.  You don't have to do it all at once.  You don't have to go from, one day, thinking you're ugly, to the next day thinking you're attractive.  I call it a baby step, because, at first, you take it with some doubt and reservation.  You've never done it before, and, understandably, you're not sure it'll work.  But at least you're willing to give it a try.  And, by giving it a try, you begin to change not only yourself, but everything around you.  For the better.

And here's the good news that I'm anxious to share with you:  You can do this for yourself; it's completely within your control.  How you feel about yourself comes from within you, not outside of you (so forget about what you think Western media says about how unattractive Asian people are).  No one else can make you feel better about yourself.  No one.  I hope you see that as good news too, because you don't have to rely on anyone to make it happen.  You don't have to pay a bunch of money to make it happen (in fact, it's absolutely free).  And you can begin to make it happen today, starting right now, this very second.  It's yours if you want it.  You only have to want it badly enough to make the initial shift in how you think and feel about yourself, and remain committed to further improvement.      

It took me many years to learn this lesson.  I wasted so much time thinking I was ugly too, and that no one would ever pay attention to me.  I felt like I was invisible, because I had so few friends, and I never believed, in a million years, I'd ever find someone who wanted to be with me, who might actually fall in love with me.  I never believed that could happen.  And, as long as I didn't believe it could happen, it never would.    

It wasn't until I took those first few baby steps that I began turning my life around.  It took time, it didn't happen overnight, but it did happen.  And look where I am today.  As you write, I'm happy and I'm experienced.  Yes, I am.  And you will be too, one day, when you listen to and understand my words, and realize, for perhaps the very first time, what a truly wonderful and worthwhile human being you are.  Because you are.  You must begin to believe that.  I wouldn't say it unless it's true.  You know how I know it's true?  Because all of us are truly wonderful and worthwhile human beings.  And that's a fact.   

Now, let's take a look at the other issues you raise, and you'll see how they're all connected to how you see and feel about yourself.  Every last one of them.     

You say you have few friends.  I've never had many, either.  But you don't need a lot of friends; you just need a few good ones.  And, when you feel better about yourself, and project that new and improved you out into the world, you'll have a much better chance of meeting new people and making new friends.  Because people will notice you more when you believe you are worth noticing.  You'll feel more confident about approaching people and introducing yourself.  And people will like the kind of person you are, how you come across to them, and will want to spend time with you.  That's how friendships start.

I understand how scary it might be when you think about the possibility of other people finding out you're gay.  All of us feel the same way, once we've finally accepted our own gayness and want to share the truth of who we are with those who are important to us.    

If this is not a good time to tell your parents about your sexual orientation–for financial reasons or otherwise–then don't.  You don't have to come out to anyone until you are good and ready.  Eventually, the right time will present itself, and you'll know it when that is.  I'm sure it won't be easy to tell your parents you're gay–it isn't for most of us, so we all have that in common–but it will be an enormous relief.  And it will be so much easier to understand, accept, and help them through it when you feel good about yourself and know there is nothing wrong with you.

Until then, you're in control.  Use that to your advantage.  Reveal the truth about who and what you are only when you feel it's safe to.  And only to those who really need to know.  You're just nineteen years old.  Give yourself time to figure out how and when you want to do it, and go from there.    

As far as meeting other gay people, my guess is that you attend a university in a large Canadian city.  To my knowledge, most large universities have some kind of a campus gay and lesbian society or association.  I'd be surprised if the one you attend doesn't (unless it's a religious university, in which case, you'll find that much more challenging).  Make some enquiries about this society or association–when and where they meet, if they hold dances or activity nights, and so on.  

Because your parents don't live in Canada, you should feel free to explore what this society or association has to offer.  And, yes, I realize you're a conscientious student and need to spend a good deal of your time studying.  But you also need to make it a priority to get out and meet new people.  Otherwise, you'll spend the rest of your life watching movies by yourself.  And you don't want that to happen, do you?  

You mention that you try to meet people by engaging in sports activities that you're not particularly interested in.  Then stop doing them.  First, you shouldn't get involved in anything for the primary reason of meeting new people.  That may be a great side benefit of getting out and doing things, but, in the end, you should do what you want to because you're interested in it.  If sports don't do it for you, try something else.  Be creative about how you use your limited free time, and check out all the options available to you where you live, both on campus and off.  

On the subject of being afraid to meet other gay men, because the media portrays them as sexual animals, I had the very same concern when I was your age and much older.  And that kept me isolated from the gay community for many years.  So let me tell you this.  I won't pretend there aren't some gay men who are hyper-sexual.  There are.  And, as much as you and I may not like it–or even be afraid of it–there's nothing we can do to change them.  If that's what's important to them, or what they choose to do with their time, so be it.  You and me–we don't have to be a part of it if we don't want to.    

To a degree, the idea that gay men are sexual animals is something of a generalization and a stereotype too.  I've met plenty of decent, respectful, and fun-loving gay men over the years, and not all of them were interested in knowing me because they wanted to have sex with me.  Some just wanted to be friends, and they were some of the best friends I ever had.  So be open to that.  

If you encounter someone who's a little pushy and wants you for something you're not prepared to do, be in control.  Respect yourself enough to know what your boundaries are.  If you're not interested, tell him.  Then move on.  When you feel better about yourself–see, what I wrote above helps you even with this–you are less fearful of the unknown and better able to respond in a way that's consistent with who you are as an individual.  Don't be afraid to speak up for yourself and to tell someone to back off, if necessary.    

Finally, you write that you think you have bigger problems than most gays do.  Man, are you wrong there.  When I read your letter, I related to it completely.  

At your age, I was much worse off than you are now.  At least you've accepted that you're gay.  I was still seven years away from doing that–seven of the hardest, most miserable years of my life.  And I wasn't Asian, I was Caucasian.  Not only did I hate the way I looked, but I pretty much hated everything about myself.  I had no reason to, but you couldn't have told me that then.  I wouldn't have listened to you.  

But I'm asking you to listen to me now.  There's nothing wrong with you.  You're Asian, nineteen, and gay.  So what?  What you don't realize, but, one day, you will, is you're remarkable and amazing and beautiful, in your very own, unique way.  No one can be you as well as you can.  No one.  And you're here to be that.  That is your purpose.  

I can't tell you the number of emails I've received over the years from young men just like you, in countries on every continent, who tell me more or less the same thing you did.  They're of every ethnicity, and they're confused and lost.  It's clear to me from their words that almost all of them hate themselves for one reason or another, and, consistently, I share with them the same advice I shared with you.  

You are not alone.  And you will get through this.  How do I know?  Because I was you, all those years ago.  And I got through it.  So, if I can, you can.  

Believe.  

A New Subtitle

I'm trying on a new subtitle for my blog.

I've thought about doing this for many months.  I just feel the new subtitle more accurately encompasses the message I want to send with each post I write (and the ones I've already written).

There is no one more important in our lives than ourselves.  After all, we have to live with who we are every single day.  And there's no escaping that person, even though we may want to (and even try to).    

All good things come from the relationship we have with ourselves.  If we don't feel good about who and what we are, then chances are those who are most important to us won't be either.  So we have a responsibility, first, to ourselves, and then to others, to be all we can be, all we were intended to be.

That's a lot of work, I realize, but it's also called life.  It's why we're here–each of us trying to be the best version of himself.  

Fortunately, we are not alone on our journey; we have each other–all of us at different places on our own paths–to learn from.  This has become so clear to me over the years, as I've received comments and emails from young people in particular, with questions that an older person, like me, who's been there, can answer for them.

I'm grateful for the opportunity to be of service whenever I can.  I only hope what I know to be true, based on my own experience, makes a difference in the life of someone else.

That's all I can ask for, and all that really matters.      

        

Eli Lieb, "Young Love"

Here's another young recording artist and songwriter you should be aware of.

Both he, and Steve Grand in my previous post, present young gay men in a positive and uplifting way.  I applaud artists like them, for taking the personal and professional risk to put something like this out into the world, and for showing how normal and natural same sex attraction is.

Enjoy.

Steve Grand, "All-American Boy"

Please take a few minutes to watch this groundbreaking music video.  You won't regret it.

Chapter Seven, "Broken," from "For the ♥ of David," A Novel-in-Progress

Three years ago, I started to write a novel based on a short story I'd written.  By late last summer or early fall, I'd completed a first draft, and I began to work on rewrites.  Since then, the editing process has been long and often frustrating.  But I'm starting to get a sense of what my novel will be once it's done, and that is gratifying.

I'm pleased to share with you Chapter Seven, "Broken," in its entirety below.  The content of the chapter is self-explanatory; all you need to know is it takes place in late 1988.  Oh, and it's suitable for all audiences.

Thanks for taking the time, and I hope you enjoy it.

CHAPTER SEVEN

BROKEN

Two weeks later, I went to David’s for an early Christmas dinner.           

            It was the first time someone, other than a relative, had invited me over for a meal–certainly another gay man.  I was so excited, I couldn’t wait to go.        

            When I arrived at David’s apartment late that Saturday afternoon, I was surprised when he told me it would be just the two of us.  Especially considering how much work he was putting himself through, going all out as though he expected a houseful of family and friends.        

            In addition to the traditional roasted turkey, stuffing, and gravy, the meal consisted of a tossed salad with homemade dressing, garlic mashed potatoes, steamed broccoli, oven-warmed buns, and cranberry sauce, which David told me he’d made using a secret recipe of his grandmother’s.  And, for dessert, he’d baked a pumpkin pie, including the crust, which he garnished with fresh whipped cream and sprigs of mint. 

            Overstuffed, David and I sat at his intimate, candle-lit dining table–the everyday items normally found on it moved to the floor, in the corner and out of the way–where we talked, laughed, and enjoyed ourselves until well into the evening.         

            When it came time to clean up, we worked together to transfer everything back to the kitchen.  Afterward, I stood in the short hallway, leaning against the narrow half-wall, and watched David fastidiously rinse the dirty dishes, piling like items on top of each other.  In amongst his impatient and frustrated mutterings about the lack of counter space, our lively dinner repartee continued.   

            Once everything had been rinsed and stacked, David excused himself to use the bathroom.

            As I sauntered about his living room, admiring the things he had–and, dare I say it, allowing myself to consider sharing them with him, if and when we became a couple–I felt I needed to do something more to show my appreciation for dinner.  After all, David had done everything he could to make me feel like an important guest.  Perhaps, I thought, I should start washing the dishes and help free up some space on the counter.           

             Having rinsed the sink, clearing it of remaining food debris, I turned on the hot water and added dishwashing liquid, just like I would if I’d been home.  As I did, a tingle ran up my spine and spread throughout my body; I found myself humming a familiar tune I couldn’t place.                 

            For the first time, I felt what I imagined it must be like to live with someone, to be in an honest-to-goodness relationship.  Having shared a delicious meal, and after cleaning up, David and I, the two of us, would settle in for a quiet evening together at home–watching TV, talking, or just being in each other’s company.  As I thought of that, I felt warm and full inside.              

            Standing at an unfamiliar kitchen sink, washing someone else’s dishes, admittedly felt unusual, foreign, because I’d never done it before.  But it also felt somehow right, like it was meant to be. 

            I’d never considered the possibility, but I discovered an unexpected intimacy doing such a mundane task–working with those things someone else uses everyday to prepare and eat food.  Perhaps, in some respects, more intimate even than having sex together. 

            That’s when it happened.  Caught up in my reverie as I was, I’d added David’s crystal wineglass to the sudsy water without realizing it.  Then, absentmindedly, I’d pushed the dishcloth into it, snapping off a large piece glass, and driving the resulting sharp edge into the base of my right index finger. 

            Searing pain shot through me, and I instinctively retracted my hand from the water.  In amongst the soap bubbles, I saw a flap of skin.  Blood and water ran down my hand toward my wrist.  When I tried to see if a piece of broken glass had lodged into the wound, seeping blood obstructed my view. 

            The first impulse I had was to dip my hand back into the sink of hot, soapy dishwater, to wash away the blood before it dripped onto the floor.  But I already knew that would sting like hell.  Not to mention, mixing blood with the clean water didn’t feel like the right thing to do.            

            Then the thought of HIV came to me.       

            While there was still some confusion about how the virus was transmitted from one person to another, there was no question contact with infected blood was one of the primary ways.   

            Since I’d had sex with only a few people, I was almost certain I wasn’t HIV+. 

            Still, Kurt and I had engaged in risky sexual activity, just after I’d come out a few years earlier.  And I hadn’t been brave enough, or saw good reason–that is, I hadn’t entered a committed relationship yet–to get tested.  The last thing I wanted to do was contaminate the dishwater with my blood.  Even though, in the unlikely event I was infected, I doubted the diluted virus would be dangerous.

            As I stood in David’s kitchen, holding my hand upright, using a tissue from my jeans pocket to wipe up the blood and water so it wouldn’t drip on the floor, I started to panic.  How could I have been so careless?  Would David be upset when he found out I’d broken one of his wineglasses?  How could I have ruined an otherwise perfect evening?      

            I looked at the cut on my hand.  It was still bleeding.  A lot.  And I didn’t know what to do.  I was no longer thinking clearly.    

            Just then, at the other end of the hallway and across from the kitchen, the door to the bathroom opened.     

            “What happened?” David asked, looking at my hand, then up at me.         

            I pointed to the water in the sink and explained about the wineglass.        

            As I spoke, David went into action.  He opened a cupboard door and produced a roll of paper towels.  Unrolling several sheets, he tore them off and handed them to me.  When I’d cleaned my hand and arm, he inspected the wound.  Blood kept getting in the way. 

            “I don’t think there’s any glass in it,” I told him, my voice shaky.   

            David tore off several more sheets of paper towel, folded them into a thick pad, and gave them to me. 

            “Keep your hand up,” he instructed.  “Apply pressure to stop the bleeding.”  The calm yet earnest tone of his voice reminded me of my mother, on those occasions when she’d shown concern for my wellbeing as I was growing up. 

            Several minutes later, I removed the soiled pad.     

            “It looks deep,” David said.  “You might need to get stitches, to stop the bleeding.”         

            My heart sank. 

            The word “stitches” took me back to a hot summer evening in my late teens.  My father and I had been on our way somewhere in his pick-up truck.  To our right, the driver of a car on a side street missed the stop sign and slammed into us.  In the passenger seat, I was thrown to the left.   

            When we were safely out of the vehicle, my father took a look at me and said I needed to go to the hospital.  Without realizing it at the time of the impact, my head had hit the steering wheel, opening a gash.  I felt something warm on my forehead and touched it.  My fingers were covered in blood. 

            As I laid on a stretcher in the Emergency ward, a doctor injected my scalp with a local anesthetic, then dabbed at the wound to clean it.  He threaded numerous stitches through the layer of skin to close the cut. 

            At the time, I hadn’t felt much beyond a pulling sensation, as the suture thread had been drawn through my skin.  But the idea of what had happened, as if hemming a pair of pants, had made me sick to my stomach.

            Regardless of what David had said, I wasn’t going to Emergency at St. Paul’s Hospital–that was for damn sure.  Not only did I not want to inconvenience him, by having him take me there–even if he did like to drive his car–but also I had no intention of allowing a doctor to stick a needle in my hand, to freeze it or to sew it up.  Eventually, the bleeding would stop on its own.  It had to.               

            Blood kept oozing from my hand, faster than I was willing to accept.              

            Determined to stop it, I returned the compress to the cut and pressed even harder.  David prepared another pad of paper towel and exchanged it for the one I had.  Several minutes later, we looked at the cut again.  The bleeding seemed to have slowed, somewhat anyway, and I breathed a little easier.  Still, I couldn’t get the idea of stitches off my mind.    

            As I continued to hold my hand up, pad firmly in place, David drained the sink and sprayed water over the items in it, clearing the soap suds to find the broken wineglass and shards.  He looked at me and smiled.

            “You drama queens are all alike,” he said.  “Always needing to be the center of attention.” 

            Several times while he worked on washing and drying the dishes himself, David asked to see the cut.   

            Finally, when the bleeding had mostly stopped, he opened a cupboard door and took out a first aid kit.  He unzipped it, made a compress from several feet of gauze, and affixed it to my hand with medical tape. 

            “I missed my calling,” he said.  “I should have been Florence Nightingale.”

*

The excitement of the evening thankfully over, David and I carried our cups of tea to the living room and settled into the two cozy, wingback chairs. 

            The table lamps on both sides of the sofa, reminding me of tall, narrow, Grecian urns, cast the room in a warm glow.  Smooth jazz tunes from David’s favorite radio station out of Seattle played quietly in the background.

            I shifted uneasily in my seat and cleared my throat several times. 

            “I have a question,” I said tentatively, as though seeking permission to ask it.           

            “Why am I not surprised?” David responded.  I heard the tick of his teacup as he set it in the saucer on his lap.

            “It’s been on my mind for weeks,” I said.

            That was true, it had been.  Just as it was true I’d been determined not to bring it up.                 

            But the events of the past few hours–from the fantasy of being part of a couple, to feeling vulnerable when I’d cut my hand, to seeing another side of David as he’d tended to me–had weakened my resolve.  If there’d been a time to raise the subject, I thought it was then.   

            I gathered my thoughts and tried to select my words carefully. 

            “I was just wondering, you know, when you told me before…um, that I’m not your type.  I mean, how did you know?”

            “Here we go again.”

            “What do you mean, ‘here we go again’?” I tried to ask it in a joking manner, to keep the tone of our conversation light.  “I haven’t brought this up before.”           

            “Maybe not directly, Priscilla.  But I know where you’re going with this.”             

            “Oh, yeah?  And where am I going?”   

            “We already discussed it.”

            “No, you discussed it.  I listened.”  He gave me that skeptical stare.  “But I don’t get it,” I continued.

            “That’s right, you don’t.  And you’re not going to.”  I attempted a laugh.       

            After a moment, I tried again.  “When you said I wasn’t your type, you didn’t even know me.  How could you be so sure?” 

            “I knew.  Like I said before, it’s either there, or it’s not.”     

            “But I don’t understand.  How am I not your type?”   

            “You won’t give up, will you?” David said, taking another sip of tea.  “Well, for starters, you’re too desperate.  People can smell how needy you are from a mile away.  No one wants to be with a needy, old queen.”  He smirked at me.           

            I shot him a look.  “Thanks a lot.”

            “You’re welcome.  I know you don’t mean that now, but you will…one day.”                

            Neither of us said anything.  Then David spoke up.

            “I see how you might have gotten the impression I changed my mind, that I’m interested in you now.  But, as far as I’m concerned, Gertrude, nothing’s changed.  We’re still where we were before.”                 

            “But–”

            “No more buts,” David said firmly.  “And no begging.  It’s not becoming to a woman like you.”   

            I wanted to say something else, I really did, but I stopped myself.  What was the point?                

            For some time afterward, David and I sat quietly, drinking our tea and listening to the music. 

            But my mind was churning.        

            In less than a year, I’d turn thirty.

            I knew, or I’d been led to believe, anyway, that once a gay man had reached that milestone age, it was all over.  Just like that, he’d be old, undesirable, and invisible, especially to those he most wanted to find him attractive.

            From that point onward, the chance of meeting a partner would be even more difficult than it had been (read: impossible).  Through no choice of his own, the poor sop would live the rest of his life isolated, lonely, and miserable–what he’d probably dreaded most happening to him.       

            Seeing myself end up like that scared the living crap out of me.  I couldn’t conceive of the possibility I’d go through life without ever experiencing real and true love–at least once.  In the event that was the case, I believed little else would have any meaning.             

            The light and airy riffs of George Benson’s “Breezin’” floated about David’s apartment.

            Time was running out.  

            Despite my persistence, the clubs had been nothing but a disappointment, and I had no reason to believe they’d be any different in the future.  Before it was too late, I had to try something else. 

            But what?

            The only other thing I could think of was what I’d told myself I never would.  After all, I had to draw the line somewhere. 

            As I pondered the situation I was in, I knew I might not want to do it.  But the decision had already been made for me. 

Our Relationship Comes of Age

In some countries, states, and jurisdictions, the relationship I have with Chris officially comes of age today.  That is, this being June 13, 2013, Chris and I celebrate our twenty-first anniversary.  I will not be at home with him to share our special day, as I happen to be in Kelowna, on my annual visit with my mother.  But I'm scheduled to return home tomorrow, and we'll mark the occasion then.

What's so remarkable to me is that, twenty-one years ago, I would never have thought I'd be where I am today–in a monogamous relationship, for twenty-one years, with one of the most amazing human beings I've ever met, and still madly in love.  I am blessed, no question about that, and I couldn't be more grateful.  I have what a good many other gay men confide in me they wish they had.

I know you've heard this before, particularly on televised awards shows, but it's true:  If this can happen to me, it can happen to you too.  I am all the proof you need of that.  In other words, if an ordinary, nothing-special, mostly uptight, and not particularly easy to live with, gay man like me can find a wonderful human being to cherish and love for over two decades, I know for a fact it can happen to you too.

I hope when you look at me, you see someone very much like you.  I hope you see how much we have in common: the belief that love (not sex) is the only reason we're here, love can happen to any of us at any time, and the degree to which you love yourself suggests the degree to which you're able to accept love from someone else.

For all of you seeking real and true love, let this be your year.  That is my sincere wish for you.

Happy Anniversary, Sweetheart.  I love you so much.