I can never do the hair right.
On the morning of September 9, 2001, I asked permission to peruse the sketchbook of someone I saw drawing outside of my Intro to Graphics class. I was allowed to browse and its owner and I had a brief conversation, during which she offered a URL to her website. We had more conversations in following classes.
She eventually introduced me to her partner and circle of friends, an easygoing bunch that played lots and lots of games. I wasn’t especially good at competitive games, so I tended to spend those early gatherings going through her copious collection of art books.
She’s one of my closest and most trusted friends, someone who’s managed to put up with me through my various highs and lows. Her and her partner were my roommates during one of the worst years of my life, and the fact that they’re still on amicable terms with me, I think, says a lot.
She recommends music that I’ll enjoy, artwork that I’ll appreciate, and movies that I’ll end up watching more than once. She can seem a bit hostile, but that’s only because she has no tolerance for nonsense. She is caring when it matters most, and has an innate sense of when someone needs a hug. Some of her gifts that have overjoyed me include a tiny sock, a kitten keychain, and a cooking apron.
She stays very very busy making a living doing what she likes to do. Despite that, we manage to talk or see one another at least once a month, which is more than I can say of the majority of people I know.