If you’re looking to get me a gift, there’s the stuff I’ve “registered” for:

• A note saying you went to the orphanage* and adopted a dog.
• An email saying you finally were able to which Vitamix is right for you and took the plunge (saving up to $90 because of the big Mother’s Day Sale).
• A text with a picture of your breakfast.
• A pingback saying you wrote about Life is NOYOKE.
• A voicemail of freestyle rap.
• A comment telling me the last book you were gifted.
• A donation to ALS-TDI.
• A promise to never gift me things ever again because you understand how things stress me about and bring me zero joy (well explained by fellow disliker of stuff, Sivers.

That’s all I got this year. I have everything I need and could ever want.

So go do something for yourself that would make me proud.

Love,
Lenny

You’ll never understand.

Try to figure someone out.

It may seem compassionate to figure out why they did what they did. Or said what they said. Or thought what they thought.

But you’ll never really, fully understand.

So understand that.

Because that’s true compassion.

Do for you. Or do for me.

They’re not mutually exclusive.

But when there’s a chance to do both, one wins every time.

That’s why you ask for help with a move instead of offering pizza and beer. Even though pizza and beer is more of an incentive, it becomes not enough.

It’s not the clothes. Or the hair. Or the skin. Or the body. Or the voice. Or the walk. Or the smile.

It’s deep, deep inside.

Find it.

Find it behind their eyes.

[Happy Birthday, Love.]