When you have a wonderful trip, it is incredibly hard to remember one distinct day, because they all sort of run together in a crazy, cake-fueled haze. At the end of it, you are five pounds heavier and you have on a bathing suit bottom instead of underwear because you wore your last clean pair the day before.

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Warning: Today’s post is all about me gushing over my husband. The jaded and cynical may want to skip it entirely, or possibly read it with a barf bucket at hand. Because holy cats, you guys: he’s really effing cute.

 

I can’t get over this shot. I think he looks so handsome:

 

This one, too:

 

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Before I begin this post, I feel it pertinent to provide a little background on my relationship with my brother. This is what happened after he shared an article I wrote on Facebook:

 

This was a rare moment of non-vitriol. Most of the time, I just tell him that I hate him and that he needs to get a job. Normal sibling stuff.

Ours is built on mutual animosity and resentment that has, over the years, blossomed into even more resentment. Though to my credit, I stopped kicking him the balls, like, three years ago.

This is my favorite photo of me and Edward when we were little:

LOOK HOW GODDAMN CUTE I WAS.

 

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Friends, Seattleites, Pac NW Countrymen, lend me your ears!

… Today kinda sucks, huh?

At least we’ll always have 2014.

 

For some of us, this pain is not new. It’s one we’ve come to know well. We were there when Hasselbeck won the coin toss in the wildcard game in 2003, when he bravely said we were going to score, and instead was intercepted. We pounded on the ground so furiously when we beat the Cowboys in the playoffs in 2007, that our downstairs neighbors complained.

We felt so wronged in the Super Bowl in 2006, we can barely talk about it.

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