Once Morrison and I were married, he finally got to open my box, BY WHICH I OF COURSE MEAN the delicately wrapped gift containing a letter I had to write to my future husband in sixth grade sunday school:
I somehow managed to keep and preserve said box for 22 years, thanks to my obsession with old childhood things and how they indicate that we are basically the same people for our entire lives. The box itself is like a tiny vision board before vision boards were a thing:
And its contents are hilarious and naive and sweet and bear traces of an early warped sense of a humor based deeply in puns and bad spelling.
So happy I ended up with a ‘stud of studs’ instead of a ‘dud of duds’ (?) who actually finds this amusing; does not run away, screaming.