The itchy, twitchy life of a highly-strung neurotic who loves too hard! When I look at Chris my blood feels carbonated, a baby-pink fizzy-drink where the bubbles are little quivering exclamation points (shit yes I'll reach for that metaphor! shit yes I'll strain it!) - yet lest this sound sunny and pop-songish, THOSE BUBBLES ARE BROKEN-LIGHTBULB SHARP and COLLAPSING MY VEINS. When perfectly reasonable people are saying perfectly interesting things to me, I want to interrupt them with a curt gesture and say something like "Chris really likes pears." I want to shriek "Chris really likes pears!" off the top of a grassy hill and keep shrieking it as I roll down, perhaps summing up with "and squirrrrelllls!" as I pick up speed near the bottom.