Matt just called me from a Mexican restaurant a few blocks away to verify the contents of my quesadilla. I am a horrifying brat about restaurant food: if it doesn’t come out exactly as I want it, I simply won’t eat it. Any normal human being would then say, “Fine, you f*cking spoiled twat” as I stare silently at my untouched plate. Matt, on the other hand, will go to great lengths to make sure things always come out right, even a $4 quesadilla.
I don’t think there is anyone out there who will ever be more patient and more indulgent of my quirks. By “quirks,” I mean “massive, fatal flaws that may render me unlovable to anyone else.”
