How Much Wood. None. Thank God.

As you may see.

Colton is behind me.

And he lookin' good too.

I continue to draw anchors.

And discuss my life.

And think about marrying you because it makes me happy.

To have 100% Mexican babies.

Running around.

Not eating in the car.

Having the house smell like Sweet Pea and Clinique.

Having those really warm jacket.

We'd have a fire place.

And slippers and silk bathrobes.

I have a job of something I never thought I would.

Sing "Star Sweeper," like the mommy from Lady and the Tramp.

Which I happen to know all the lyrics.

I take notes. 

On how you do things.

I'm almost certain this won't happen the way I want it to.

And somehow I'll learn to accept.

Find someone better.

Who is also Mexican.

Imagine that.

Too bad Colton's not Mexican.
Baby.
You're a baby.
And so am I for complaining.
"Who says my wife can't be hot?"
I will.
Swear to it, young boy.
You will be my wife.
Or you won't.
Swear to that.
Anchors ahoy.
You make me want to be a better me.
And for all you and I both know.
I will be.
And the dish ran away with the spoon.