Today is the 18th birthday of one of my biggest fans. He laughs at most of my worst jokes, loves most of my cooking and almost everything I write, and he gives really nice hugs when I’m sad. The nine months I was pregnant with him we lived near the beach in a house with spiders and ants, and I could go to town in my pajamas and be the best-dressed person at the Post Office. Many days it was foggy, but you could hear the surf when the wind was right.
Happy Birthday, Max.
Almost Every Thursday 