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Fall in love with a girl who writes, because she will always tell you exactly how she feels. She’s comfortable enough to speak her mind, because she’s been rehearsing since the day she picked up a number two pencil and a marble composition book for the first time, and she breathed life onto its pages until her tiny hands cramped. She always tells the best stories, because she hand selects each piece of diction with such care, to make sure she gets it just right, so that you experience it as close as possible to the way she did. That being said, she’s persuasive, and she knows this well, and you’re suddenly halfway through “The Notebook”, before you realized she’s successfully used her rhetorical skills to get her way the eighth Friday night in a row. She is as passionate as she is patient, she knows that good things take a lot of time and practice. You’ve seen her tap her pen on the desk, pace across the house, and heard the back- space key being violently tapped as she searches for the perfect words to be perfectly arranged with her fingertips. Love the way poetry escapes her lips every time she speaks, without her even trying. She is the same on paper as she is in flesh, the aesthetics of her writing are colloquial to what the world has written on her soul. She knows what parts of your relationship are subjective, so she always tries to adjust her eyes to your lenses, but she also knows the objective lines she and you hold one another accountable to not step outside of. She’s an excellent listener, nothing is more satisfying to her than learning new information, except of course putting it on paper. She’s been writing draft after draft of her love story, and tossed them at an overflowing trash can surrounded by two weeks worth of coffee cups and empty cans and bottles of diet soda she’s been hoarding, as she searches for the words to create her own version of prince charming. She can’t help but fall in love with the lives strangers she reads about, and speaks to. She fanaticizes about what it’s like to wake up in their bed each morning, not with them, but as them, and she picks their brains and binge eats their words as if she’s never eaten before. They’re the anonymous characters in the stories she screams standing on a stage made entirely from the graves of more than a million lives that man replaced the expiration date fate had written, trying to play the hand of god, by tying the rest of world’s behind their backs. Her lyrics have been branded on the backs of people she’s never met, etched on the walls of prisons that have since been reduced to rubble, and lace the tears of eyes she’s never seen before. She wants to free the spirits of them all, so she keeps writing until her fingers bleed, and then keeps writing, because the pain of injustice is so much more debilitating than any physical ailment. Love that no matter how many books she’s written, or papers she has typed, she still finds the time every single day to write a page in the chapter she’s titled with your name. Love that just as she’s never given up on her writing, she’s never given up on you. And finally, love the way she inspires you every single day to write a better chapter than you did the day before.