Love is not singular except in syllable. . .

I love late night Enrique/Hilary Duff parties, breaking into apartments, getting yummy-smelling hand soap, "business" meetings at Sensuous Sandwhich, FHE brothers, fish tanks, clean apartments, going to bed at 10 pm, being able to drive stick, sealing the deal with some tanning passes, high heels in the snow, my green chair in the apartment, Adam Grant, stolen stop signs, real men, chivalry, cleaning checks that consist of the checker walking in and out of the apartment in less than ten seconds, paint-chip tables, silly bands, stick shift, blogging, internet, aprons, James Harding, tennis shoes, pizza parties with brothers, studying for the LSAT, finding five dollars in my coat, eating the frosting first of an Oreo, Toy Story, chick flicks, clean laundry, roommates, dressing up nice, my new Mac, editing, earrings, speeding, fake tickets, walking on campus with old friends, i-clickers, new friends, pirates, tots, HTML code, passions, sticky notes, singing as if no one was there, running in the rain, funny looking bruises, talks on-line, big "sleep-over" beds, the quote wall, Amy Baxter, comfy couches, clean microwaves, late night window taps from friends, smiles, the scripps, calendars, humming, devotionals with friends, games, locks, keys, early morning swimming, able to tell a friend anything no matter what, fully-charged laptops, Cecilly Francisco, my mom, christmas dots, laughing till you cry, crying till you laugh, long drives, facebook stalking. . .

Love, love, love, it.