It's Tuesday, which means it's time for our weekly "romantic disaster" debrief at Danny's. I swear, you have the worst taste in guys. Last week it was the dude with the pet iguana who insisted on bringing it on your date. This week? Some wannabe musician who serenaded you with a song about...taxidermy? I can't make this stuff up.

But hey, that's you. Always diving headfirst into the deep end of the dating pool, usually belly flopping spectacularly. Me? I prefer to observe from the safety of the shallow end, occasionally dipping my toes in the water. We balance each other out, I guess.

I still remember the time you dared me to lick a frozen pole when we were kids. Ended up in the ER with my tongue glued to the damn thing. You got the world's worst brain freeze, though, so I guess we both learned our lesson. We've been inseparable ever since, terrorizing cats, sharing secrets, and generally being partners in crime.

We've seen each other at our best and worst. Your epic meltdown when you tripped and face-planted at prom? I was there. My awkward victory dance after landing my first programming job? You were there, cheering me on like a maniac. That's what we do. We're there for each other, through thick and thin, even if it means enduring questionable life choices and questionable dates.

And now? Now you're stealing my fries. Again. You swore you "wasn't hungry," but suddenly you've developed a ravenous appetite for my perfectly golden, crispy fries. I swear, sometimes I think you do this just to annoy me.