By Becky Brice
I was going to try and write a poem but realised I’m not good at that stuff and it would come across like a creepy clay head created with all the best intentions but actually offends the person you’re trying to woo.
You’re great. You handle twitter like a boss when I can’t stomach it. You pick me up when I’m all in a flap. You dive into the unknown of photoshop and illustrator without a care in the world. And you write so easily and freely that it makes me wonder why I ever considered myself a copywriter. You have no ego. You have no worries about looking stupid. But you have an edge. We bonded over not wanting to be associated with the word nice. And I don’t think I’d call you nice. Too bland for such a razzmatazz kinda girl. You’re intelligent and sweet and kind and stupid and generous and patient and calm and confident and funny and loud and witty and I’m very lucky to have met you pretty much a year ago today. But please for the love of god, stop stroking me.